Get It Right
by Dannemund
Summary: Emily and Charon get lost after her Pip-Boy is broken, ending up east of D.C.―along the way they discover Charon is not truly free of the contract, and a Brotherhood plot to take down a powerful group of slavers. Old memories clash with new thoughts and send Emily spiraling into disaster. Sequel to Make It Okay, rated M for Mature, violence, sex and swearing.
1. In Which Emily Loses a Thumb

Note: Everybody around here's been sick so I've been lacking in my writing, and did some drawing (Clara turned out nice). I have a tumblr under the same name I use on here, if you are interested.

This is my attempt to do what I intended to do in Make It Okay. More contract shenanigans, and more annoying Emily. Definite future content warning! (I know I write trash fiction ya'll, I ain't afraid of that.) Introducing some original characters to keep the plot flowing, since this takes place mostly outside of the Capital Wasteland.

* * *

"Hey," Emily said. "Charon. Hey. _Hey!"_

He ignored her. She was standing on the edge of a broken bridge northeast of the Republic of Dave, looking down at the riverbed below. Charon was digging through a pile of debris at her request, attempting to uncover the end of a footlocker that had fallen off the back of a wrecked truck. She had pestered him repeatedly to help her; with her recent injury she was unable to hold her rifle or anything other than a small pistol. She certainly wasn't going to dig through rubble with a missing thumb tip.

"Charooooon. _Charooooon."_

He shot her a terrible look. She grinned, slowly, and held up her hand. "Look," she said, and made her hand do the false thumb trick with the severed thumb.

"Why are you still playing with that," he growled. "It is disgusting."

"Says the man who is a ramshackle heap of flesh," she muttered, and lifted her arm. She tossed the thumb tip into the wastes, watching it arc through the air. _"You're_ the one who―"

"Say it again," he said angrily, dropping the footlocker onto the ground. "One more time, Emily!" Sniping at his physical appearance? He was not happy with that. He was not happy with Emily being critical at all of him, especially when―

"You shot off my _fucking thumb,_ Charon!" She put her hands on her hips and winced a little when her left hand hit her side. _"And_ you ruined my fucking Pip-Boy, thank you very much!"

On days like this, he wished he was still under the contract. Charon felt like throttling the girl. He wanted to press his own mostly-intact thumbs into her hyoid bone and squeeze until she went limp. She was taking every available opportunity to remind him that he had injured her, _and_ she was insulting him to boot? Charon growled to himself.

"Stop being stupid-scary and dig up the damn thing. We still have to find somewhere to sleep tonight." She sighed and blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Or are you planning to watch me again, all night long?"

"It is an option," he muttered, and picked up the footlocker again.

"Well, I can tell you _this,"_ she said and shook her hand in pain. "The _next_ time that happens, you'd better not let me sleep on top of a goddamn ant mound."

"You were tired," he grumbled, squinting at the lock on the container. "And you would not let me shoot that prick in the Republic." She could have slept safely in the Republic of Dave, if she had not irritated Charon into action. ...The frightened look on her face when ants came up under her and woke her up in the middle of the night _had_ been entertaining, though. A smile tugged at his mouth.

Emily scoffed at him. "Dave is alright. We don't shoot people just because, Charon."

Charon shot her an angry glance. "I do," he snarled, "when they are a _threat."_

She stared down at him. Neither one of them spoke; Emily knew full well what he was referring to, and she was clearly unhappy with his behavior at the Republic the prior day. She had led the man on in flirtatious behavior, with Charon standing behind her. She knew better. She knew he would grind his teeth until they cracked, and she did it anyway. She also knew better than to act so damn horrified when he had threatened the grabby bastard with violence and they were forced to leave the commune.

That image of his thumbs on her neck was starting to become unpleasantly comfortable. He dragged the locker up the side of the riverbed and Emily picked the lock open. She rubbed her neck as she ran a hand through the contents. Her thumb was amputated now, thanks to Charon's judicious use of a stimpak before they had found the missing part.

He would be lying if he said he wasn't upset by the occurrence. It did not please him to have damaged Emily. She was about the only thing in the world he wanted for, anymore. Her... and killing things. He liked being violent, very much. She only made that worse with her incessant flirting and inability to forget that they were... _something,_ together. He was not sure _what._

He crouched down to see better what she was doing. She muttered to herself and coughed. The contents of the footlocker were covered in dust.

"Mostly paperwork and..." she lifted out a chain with a sparkling stone attached. "Holy _shit,_ I haven't seen a diamond since I left―" Her face fell, and she sat in silence. She stared at the clear stone, about half the size of a bottle cap, set into a tarnished and intricate display. Charon watched her. Her face shifted from sadness to anger, and back to sadness.

"Can you sell it?" he asked, after a moment. She was thinking about Vault 101, he knew.

"Probably not," she said, and shoved it into a pocket. "It's pretty, though." She looked over the paperwork. "Most of this is just inventory for a jewelry shop, looks like. 'Items received' and so forth." Her eyes narrowed as she read one of the papers.

Charon spun his head at a sound to their right and he stood up. His hands tightened on his shotgun. Nothing but the wind, it appeared, but he kept his eyes open to the horizon.

"Talon Company?" she asked, not bothering to look up from the paper.

"Nothing, yet," he answered. The past week had been harrowing enough for Charon, without those assholes showing up again. Emily's reputation of being the savior of the wastes was not without a downside; even the free food and ammo that she was occasionally gifted would not make up for the constant attacks. She had finally helped Lyons with his water caravans, and now she was the biggest target in the goddamn world.

"This is a bust. I doubt we could get very much money for the diamond from anyone." She sighed and stood up. "Even if Tenpenny was still alive."

Charon snorted softly. "I would not think that Phillips would buy it, either."

"Maybe I'll wear it," she said, and pulled it out. "It is very pretty."

"Emily," Charon said, looking around. They could not afford to sit in one place for too long.

"What?" she asked, placing the stone around her neck and looking down at it. She pushed her hair aside and clasped it behind her head.

He could not bring himself to speak for a moment. The necklace―reminded him of something, something he could not put a finger on. She was... Emily _was_ beautiful, and the stone brought out the sparkle of her dark blue eyes as she stared at him. His words died in his atrophied vocal cords.

...Better to be gruff. He could handle the anger she might have. "Put that stupid thing away and let us go back to Megaton."

Emily rolled her eyes at him. She touched her collarbone where the diamond rested. "I think it's pretty." She smiled a little. "I heard someone say once, that diamonds are a girl's best friend. On a holotape... in the Vault." She smiled wider and he _remembered._

Charon turned away from her. Shit. He grumbled under his breath. _Shit!_

Connie Alexander. Why did he have to remember _her,_ now? Why _now?_ _Shit!_

Emily noticed his angry expression. "You'd better tell me whatever the hell it is you're thinking about," she said. "You know I hate it when you get _weird_ on me." By now, she knew better than to poke at him, but she did anyway.

But he would not have wanted Emily any other way, he knew. Charon broke away from the memory. "I apologize, if you feel I am not allowed to be quiet," he snarled at her. "We are standing in the middle of the open wastes and you are not fully healed. And you _persist_ in getting injured."

"Oh, and whose fault was that, hmm?" she complained.

Charon shot an arm out to her collar, and drew her close to him, baring his teeth at her. "If you did not flirt with random men we would not have been out in the wastes to _be_ ambushed!"

Emily laughed at him. Charon shoved her to the ground, as gently as he could manage. She still yelped a little, landing on her injured hand. He did not want to hurt her, but she was _so_ damn annoying...

"I shouldn't have brought you along," she said, scowling. "I swear, you're so jealous sometimes. Makes me nuts."

"You are driving me to insanity," he growled at her.

She sat up and put her forearms across her knees, staring up at him. "Oh, save me from the big bad monster!" she mocked, grinning meanly at him. She waved her hands in the air like she was fending off someone.

Charon kicked dust at her and his own mouth tugged into a grin as she coughed and spat out the grit. It was... strange, their relationship. If it had not been for his making it okay, he very much doubted he would be traveling with the aggravating girl.

"You asshole," she muttered, standing up. "You're gonna _pay_ for that one." She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "Alright, I guess we'll go home."

Emily turned her feet and strode away from him, hitching her pack up on her shoulder. Charon followed. His eyes were on the wasteland, alert to danger.

But his mind was on Connie Alexander.

* * *

 _A memory ~_

"You are bound to the contract. You are bound to whoever owns the contract. You will protect and obey the owner of the contract. You will risk your own life, to protect the owner of the contract."

He had no name. None that he had been given, so far. He was not allowed to have a name until whomever bought his contract, gave him one. Thus far, he had not been sold to anyone.

He was sure that his contract would be given an owner, soon. His training was complete; he was an excellent shot, much better than his fellows in the program. Granted, his ability with weapons was limited. But he was excellent at it, and he was excellent at improvisation. So, he expected his contract would be sold quickly.

He was sitting in the dormitory, an unadorned room in which several bunks had been arranged. He was staring at the wall opposite him, and he had not yet had any inclination to rise from his bed. He had not been ordered to, so he saw no need. Two of his fellows were sitting on their respective beds, also staring at the wall. There was nothing on his mind beyond the schedule of the day; he was to report to the courtyard with his fellows for evaluation in approximately two hours.

He waited. His shotgun was laying beside him on the bed, having been cleaned and prepared for action. His armor was clean, if not in good condition. There was nothing he could have done for the aging leather, at any rate. It was simply too old to repair.

If he were to be sold to an owner, he would have to request new armor. Inappropriate armor might very well mean the difference between his taking a shot and becoming disabled. If he were disabled, he could not perform his duties under the contract.

He, himself, was also cleaned and groomed. His red hair had been combed and parted on the side, his teeth cleaned and his breath was not terrible. His body was ready for action, in good health and muscles well-formed. His blue eyes stared ahead. He was similar to his fellows in all these aspects beyond coloring.

He was ready and able to provide services for those who might need it.

"Stand," he was ordered. It was time.

He left the dormitory, into the bright sunlight of the courtyard.

They were examined and given priority over one another, based on physical aspects. He noted that he was considered the top member of the program. A complete success. This was good; he was sure that he was the best.

His contract was sold to his first owner.


	2. In Which Emily Loves Charon

Note: Some sex in this chapter. I've already established Emily and Charon's behavior. This is just a warning.

* * *

Charon had not been sleeping; he did not sleep. But the state he found himself in was similar. Emily was laying beside him on a mattress, her hands wound into his leather armor. She was funny like that; she would get a grip on him and refuse to let go, while she slept.

Charon suspected it was because she did not want to be left alone again. Like he would get up and leave her in the middle of the night. That was ridiculous. She refused to sleep without him beside her, either. It was... childish. Charon did not enjoy being a living teddy bear for Emily. But with her arms around him and in the darkness of night... He was relaxed. He did not mind letting his mind wander. That explained the memory state.

He unstuck her fingers from his chest and sat up, staring out into the small shack. They had managed to find it before it was too dark to see, wandering north out of the Capital Wasteland. Everything was unfamiliar to him, and Emily had not bothered with her Pip-Boy after Charon shot it. Neither one of them knew precisely where they were. But she wanted to explore. Their being lost was lucky, she said.

Her Pip-Boy _was_ broken, though. She knew the risks as much as he did, in the wastes. He was not about to let a Talon Company man stab her through the stomach. She was lucky that Charon had chosen not to shoot her entire arm off. But he was good at what he did―that would not have happened. He had been that way since he could remember anything.

Memory state might be a problem, if he let it get too far. He had not thought about Connie Alexander in well over sixty years. He had... separated her memories from his present and sealed them away. Emily's diamond had brought it back.

Charon remembered his first contract owner as a man of stoic nature, like himself. They had not spoken much. The man called him Peter. They had gone to Annapolis together in the capacity of work for the Commonwealth. The second owner had been the man's friend, and so forth, until the last man ordered him to wait in the wastes and had never returned. None of them were worth much time remembering... until Connie Alexander had come along.

Charon remembered Annapolis as a thriving community of scientists and governmental officials. That was all that he could remember. It was not likely he would recall those people, since he had no need to. He remembered the dormitory he'd been raised in. He recalled he was brought there at a young age. He did not have memories before the conditioning began.

Once he had returned to the dormitory, after being left in the wastes, his contract was considered abandoned property and auctioned off. There had been others like himself on the block, waiting to be bought, but none were so old as he was at that time. Connie Alexander had not bought him until he was almost too old to be an effective bodyguard. She had paid for him with a diamond much like Emily wore now.

But he did not want to think about Connie Alexander.

* * *

 _A memory ~_

"What are you called?" she asked him, as they walked away from the courtyard outside of the Annapolis market. She was younger than he, approximately thirty years old. He was aware that this would make guarding her difficult. He doubted that her personality would lend well to being protected; she was very animated and had greeted everyone on the way out, along with everyone they had passed in the alleys of the market.

"I do not have a name," he replied. "I expect you to give me one."

"Neat," she said. She was short, much shorter than he was but he was taller than most others. The effect their respective heights caused was amusing. Connie Alexander had black hair that bounced around her shoulders as she walked, and brown eyes that scanned her surroundings constantly. He did not know where she was leading him, but he could not control their path unless she was in danger. He could only control the danger around her.

"Well!" she said, and turned to him. "I suppose you must have a name; otherwise I will be forced to call you 'Hey you' or 'Bodyguard man'."

"I shall answer to whatever name you desire to call me," he told her.

"How about... hmmm," she said. "Dang. Hard to pick one. What did your first owner call you?"

"Peter."

"I like that. A solid name." Connie Alexander pulled out a little book of papers and made a note. He would see her do this frequently, in the future. She was researching, she said. She made notes on everything remotely interesting. "Let's call you Peter, then."

"I shall answer to Peter," Peter said.

Connie Alexander smiled at him and led him through the courtyard gates, out into the waste.

With the contract to guide his hand in protecting Connie Alexander, his shotgun at his side, and a name with which to define the orders he was given, Peter obeyed.

* * *

"Charon?"

He was sitting in a chair at the table in the metal shack, staring blankly at the metal wall opposite him. He looked behind him and at Emily, who had been sleeping. She was blinking sleepily at him, in the darkness. "What?" he asked, testily.

"You left me alone," she groused. "Get back over here." She patted the bed and managed a tired smile at him.

"I do not wish to lie down with you, right now," he said. "I am not a goddamn teddy bear."

Emily pushed herself upward and ran a hand through her rumpled brown hair. She looked confused. "Who said you were a teddy―"

"You need to learn to sleep without me," he interrupted, staring at her over his shoulder. His tone was never friendly, but in this instance it was downright murderous. He was not reacting well to his memories.

She pressed her lips together and laid back down, and turned to face the wall. He had made her angry, he knew. But she would get over it. She always did. He would make it okay for her in the morning, perhaps, or she would simply forget that they had words. She was tired, it was likely.

Right now, Charon did not want to be anywhere near Emily. He could not trust himself; his reaction to his own memories, locked away for so long, was frustration and anger. ...He would not leave Emily alone, but while he was remembering Connie Alexander he did not want to be close to her―

He had murdered Connie Alexander.

* * *

 _A memory ~_

Peter pulled the girl off of the man, and hauled her away. He did not stop walking, dragging the girl by her shoulder, until he had reached a safe enough distance. They were not being shot at or pursued. He stopped, released her, and stared down at her with his cold blue eyes.

Connie Alexander was a troublemaker. She had attacked the man after he made a nasty comment about her ass.

"You shoulda let me claw his eyes out!" she hissed, her face flushed with blood.

"It is the contract," he replied. "I cannot let you come to harm."

"Screw that stupid contract!" she shrieked. "Don't you understand―" She struck out at him.

"You were in danger," he said, firmly grabbing her hands to stop her. She had not struck at him before. He was surprised.

She was surprised, too. Connie Alexander's eyes grew wide, and she stared at him. "You..." she said. "You _stopped_ me! You aren't supposed to be able to do that!"

"I am allowed to prevent injury to myself," he said, and released her. "If you have a problem with this, you may correct my behavior."

"I just might," she said, angrily, and squared her shoulders as she looked up at him. "I just might."

Connie Alexander was an alcoholic and she would continue to pick fights, no matter how often he intervened to remove her from the threat.

* * *

Emily laid a hand over his eyes. Charon grumbled a little, but she placed her lips onto his mouth and he could not argue with her while he was kissing her. She was warm and soft, and had gained some weight since they had left the shack behind to wander through the wastes without destination. They could not find the way home without direction, or without her Pip-Boy. Right now, she was more interested in sex than finding a way home.

Charon was appreciative of her extra flesh to hold onto, even if it was gained because she had raided an old Fancy Lads Snack Cake factory. She was still a child, sometimes, gorging herself on sweets. The snacks cakes had made her... rounder, and he enjoyed that, for some reason.

"Ah! _Oh,_ God!" she was moaning, as she moved up and down on him. Charon grunted with the effort of withholding himself; if Emily was not happy, he was not, either.

"Oh, God, _Charon!"_ she screamed, the name he had been given by that bastard in Underworld. He hated that name, remembered the horrible things he had been made to do by Ahzrukhal. The gratification of the activity he was engaged in diminished. Emily threw herself forward onto his chest and grabbed his shoulders, shuddering and moaning loudly. She slowed to a stop.

She was happy, then. He did not need to worry about his own physical needs. He twitched inside her, deliberately, and she moaned as she clutched at his chest.

"Get off of me," he said, abruptly.

She scoffed at him. "God, you're so _touchy_ lately. Who shoved a grenade up your ass?"

"Get off of me," he repeated, more firmly.

Emily pulled herself away from him and shivered, as he was exiting her. She was not physically attracted to him. He knew this. She had covered his eyes, before. She made derogatory comments about his appearance. She used him because she wanted sex, and he was readily available. That was all.

It made her calm. A calm Emily was less likely to do stupid things. He knew this to be true, and he was completely agreeable to letting her continue her behavior because of that. ...He did not dislike the experience entirely. But he did dislike her attitude at this moment.

"Seriously, what the hell is your problem anymore?" she asked, pulling on her underwear. "Every single time, you've been off in your own little world or something. Makes me feel like shit."

Charon did not dignify it with a response. She did not need to be privy to his memories. She would not understand; she was too young to comprehend―

What the hell was wrong with him? He sat up on the ratty piece of cardboard that Emily had dragged him to, and stared into the distance. He was not acting normal... if normal could be defined as his behavior after that mess with the purifier and his "death". She had come to expect that from him, and he had subsequently denied her, any normality. He had... been acting as if he were under the contract again, lost in his memories.

"I have been thinking, Emily," he said. "I should not be here, with you."

Emily stopped in the middle of pulling her shirt onto her arms and was immediately at his back, clutching him under his arms. Her exposed breasts against his back quivered in what he knew was not pleasure. "You can't leave me," she said, her voice small and scared.

"I am _not_ leaving." He frowned. "You are far too attached to me," he added, shaking his head.

Emily said nothing but held him, as tightly as she could. He knew she was crying, now. He could hear the breathy little noises she made. That had happened once before when he did seriously threaten to leave her, well before the trip to the Republic of Dave. At the time, he was trying to keep himself from throttling her in frustration. ...It was a trend that continued.

Charon was not happy to hear her crying. It felt like an injury, and old habits died hard. He could not cause her damage. He could mitigate what damage she might incur―

He grumbled to himself, under his breath. The contract was still in his head. "I have been remembering an old friend," he said. "Stop crying."

She rubbed her cheek into his shoulder and sighed. "I can't," she said. A hiccup escaped her. "You don't... you wouldn't understand."

"Try me," he said, turning his head to see her brown hair messily arranged across his shoulder. She did not respond for a few minutes.

"I don't expect you to love me," she finally said, shakily. "Just, ... _I do."_

Charon snorted in amusement. "Definitely too attached," he said. "I _should_ leave, if you are spouting nonsense."

Emily sobbed again. "If you leave me―"

"Stop blubbering, Emily. You are being dramatic." The last time he had threatened to leave, she had declared she would kill him before she started crying. Charon rolled his eyes at the thought.

She smacked him weakly in the side and spat out, "Fuck you, Charon, I'm _trying―"_ She sniffled. "You can't leave. We belong together, remember?"

He did remember.

He would not leave her.


	3. In Which Charon Acts Possessive

She was about to take the damn thing and smash it into a fucking rock, _that's_ what.

Emily glared down at her Pip-Boy, as if the mean look would make it work better. She was completely lost, now. And Charon was moping about, going into long spells of not talking or even responding to her. The Pip-Boy being broken, her lost thumb-tip, and―hell, _whatever_ was going through his mind about this person he was remembering―

 _Ugh._ She tried to figure out south from the sun, again. But it was no use. She'd always sucked at making her way around without the Pip-Boy to guide her. The local terrain maps it provided had always been the most valued feature, for the perpetually lost young adult.

"Charon!" she snapped. "Which way is south?"

He was staring out over a ruined building, his foot up on the lawnmower parked outside what used to be a front door. He did not answer.

"Fucking hell," she muttered, and kicked the mailbox. The mouth of the metal box dropped open and a piece of paper fell out. Emily picked it up. "A Letter From Vault-Tec". Yeah, she'd read a million of those, already. People being told they weren't selected for inclusion to a Vault.

Her ancestors must have received a letter like that, saying that they were selected. Otherwise she would have never been born, because her ancestors would have died or gone ghoul. It was her father's decision to bring her into the Vault; to lie to her about his entire life and her own. To abandon her there, for the sake of the tidal basin being purified. She would have rather grown up out here, she thought. In the wastes. Maybe then, her dad would have been a little more involved in her... extremely active love life, and corrected her bad behavior.

Emily shot a glance at Charon and stuffed the letter into her pocket. Her dad wouldn't have been pleased to find her sleeping with a ghoul. But she no longer cared what he would have thought; he was dead. He was gone, and she was her own person, and―

She sniffled a little. She missed him, though. It wasn't like she hated him. She just―she just wished he was around to be able to give her advice. About everything.

"Let's go," she told Charon. Still no answer. Emily scowled and walked toward the sun.

Charon didn't notice she was missing until she was almost out of sight.

* * *

"Why are we headed east?" he asked her, the next morning. It was the first thing he'd said to her since he told her to stop blubbering, two nights before. Because he was acting so distant, she had ignored him completely. It wasn't a _good_ plan; he barely noticed that she was around right now. He wouldn't notice her ignoring him, anyway.

...She was too stubborn to give up on it, though.

She ignored him now, climbing over a rock and staring out at the distant horizon. The sun was blinding, but she could just see a small town situated under a freeway overpass. She needed ammo, and Charon was running low now that he was killing everything too tough for her little pistol. Her hand was healed. She could use her sniper rifle, but she was short of .308 rounds, so...

"Emily," he said. "Why are we heading this way?"

She put her hand over her eyes and squinted down at the town. Was that a raider sign? They liked to use spray paint to decorate their hideouts―and it wouldn't surprise her after running into Eulogy and his ilk, to find another slaver stronghold. She gritted her teeth and pulled her sniper rifle out of her pack for a better view.

Not raiders, but could be slavers. The sign she saw was probably just graffiti. It read "Gamb" or something. She could barely make out some of the wording for all the paint. She lowered the rifle and bit her lip.

If they―she made a face―if _she_ went down to the town... Charon could be damned if he was gonna spit her words back at her like he did, thinking she was _too attached_ to him―

 _Stop it, Emily, stop. Just because he wouldn't believe you―you shouldn't get mad. He's still a man, and men are dumb, right?_ She bit her lip harder and reorganized her thoughts.

If she went down, alone... it could be bad. If it was raiders, it would likely get her killed. If it was slavers, she'd have fifty-fifty odds of getting killed or enslaved. She'd definitely get raped in either scenario, alive or dead. But... it could be a normal place. Not every person in the wastes was horrible.

She shot a glance at Charon and stepped down off the rock, ignoring the now-angry look he had on his face. He was aggravated again. _Oh, so what. Let him be mad, he's been nothing but a jerk lately._ She began to walk toward the town, making sure her rifle was loaded.

Charon reached out and grabbed her arm as he caught up―damn his long legs. "What is the plan?" he asked, turning her to face him.

"Maybe if you were paying _attention,_ you'd know," she said, stubbornly. She refused to look him in the eyes.

"You are not thinking about just waltzing into a town in a place we have never been to, before." His hand tightened on her arm.

"Let go, you're _hurting_ me," she grumbled. "And yes, I am. We need supplies."

Charon made a threatening noise. "You do not even know where we are. Could be dangerous."

Emily huffed. "Yeah, but we're dangerous too," she muttered. "If you've finally gotten your head out of your ass long enough to _help out!"_

Charon stared at her without moving, or speaking. Emily nodded to herself and pulled her arm away. "Yeah, what _-ever,"_ she said. She started to walk toward the town, bringing up her rifle when she was a bit closer.

Normally, Charon's reserved nature wouldn't bother her, but he was so wrapped up in whatever he was thinking about that it was becoming ridiculous. He wasn't talking to her, he wasn't paying attention when she kept moving, he wasn't even enjoying sex with her. That hurt the most; she thought she was doing a pretty good job at making him feel good, but he wasn't even getting off anymore. It was―frustrating. She sighed and rested the rifle against her shoulder. _Ignore it,_ Emily. _Just let go of it._

"I do not think this is a good idea," Charon rasped, in her ear.

Emily jerked in surprise. He was right up on her, now. "Sheesh, man, gimme some breathing room," she muttered, and readjusted her scope. "I'm looking at the place, right now. That's _all."_

"We are too far east," he muttered. "You will get killed, if you are thinking about heading to Annapolis."

Emily paused and lowered her rifle. "Are we close?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, and his tone was so dark she wondered just what was going on. She wasn't _stupid―_

"Charon, what's... Is Annapolis _important_ to you?"

He did not answer her, only dropped his eyes and backed away. Emily frowned. If he was all moody because of some memory of the place, it must be a big memory. She didn't want him to leave her because of some stupid memory.

"If you don't want to go," she told him, "you don't have to, but I am getting sick of eating nothing but snack cakes."

Charon snorted. "I find that hard to believe," he said, and reached out to pinch her on the arm. Emily smiled in relief. Well, at least that was alright. He was picking on her. That was a good sign that he was back to normal. _For now._ She was still irritated, though.

"Stay _here,_ then. _I'll_ go down and look around." She slung her rifle over her back. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"No," he rasped. "Not alone."

Emily threw her hands up and turned to look at him. "What the hell, Charon." She put her arms across her chest. "Can't go with, can't go without?"

Charon stared at her without moving. "I do not want to run into any others like myself," he said. "That is possible, if we enter the area around Annapolis."

"What?"

"The contract," he said, glancing up and away.

Oh. He meant there might be more... of the brainwashed people like himself. She shrugged. _"And?_ You're a ghoul now. No one would know you by sight, and aren't you like―a billion years older, now?"

He growled at her. "I am not _that_ old, Emily," he said.

"Well, what's the problem, then? We're tough. Shit happens all the time in the wastes." She waved her left hand at him, pointedly. "We'll just make sure it happens to someone _else,_ huh?"

He didn't answer. Emily sighed and looked out at the view, at the town nestled onto the overpass. She really didn't want to eat any more snack cakes. She was starting to get a stomach ache every time she had another one. _And_ she was getting fat!

"Maybe you should tell me what you're remembering, then," she muttered. "Fess up about why you're acting weird."

"I will not," he said. "You will want to march into Annapolis and take them down."

"Well, _now_ I do!" she retorted.

"I will not be responsible for your death," Charon said.

Hell, that was the most romantic thing he'd said to her in a long while. She felt the flutter of her heart, and reminded herself that they were only together because there was no one else in the world for each other. _...Right?_

"I am going to that town," she said, pushing away the lovey-dovey feelings. Shit, she was gonna get herself shot if she wasn't careful. She turned and started to jog away.

Charon barreled down on her and snapped her arm up, pulling her backward abruptly. "No," he snarled. She yelped in pain, and her arm under his grip started to spasm―shit, he must have agitated a nerve or something, it _hurt!_

He was opening his mouth to say something when his shoulder armor opened and blood gushed out dramatically. Emily made an "Oh" motion with her face as she turned and saw a group of men wearing armor standing roughly fifty feet away, aiming rifles at them. Charon growled and dropped her, pulling his shotgun.

"What!" she shrieked, throwing herself in front of him. A bullet bit into her and she cried out in pain. Goddammit, that was only gonna make Charon _worse―_

"Get behind me, Emily," he rasped, and held the shotgun up.

"No!" she said, pulling her sniper rifle. Another bullet hit her, and she yelped. Charon threw her to the side, and she heard him returning fire as she picked herself up off the ground. She scrambled for cover, hiding behind a broken tree trunk. Charon joined her after a moment, reloading his shotgun.

"You need to listen to me," he growled. "This would not be as _difficult,_ if you did."

Emily scoffed, pressing her hand to her shoulder. "You need to stop acting like you own me," she snorted. "You can't turn on and off like that, you know."

"Are we having _this_ argument, now?" He turned his head to look at her as the bullets cracked into the tree trunk behind her back. "Are you sure you want to discuss _that,_ now?"

She pouted at him. "Hell, Charon, if you weren't so out of it lately―"

"You can blame me for remembering later," he interrupted, and returned fire on the men in combat armor.

"Maybe I _will!"_ she hissed, and edged her sniper rifle up over the trunk. She looked through the scope and sighted in what appeared to be the leader. "Taking the shot!" she added, and squeezed the trigger.

It wasn't perfect; Emily hadn't repaired the rifle in weeks. The bullet path wasn't straight. The leader took a .308 to the arm as he raised it, pointing at the tree trunk. Emily swore and lined up a second shot, exhaling.

"This isn't over, Charon," she muttered. "No way, _no how,_ are you getting away with acting like a dickhead."

She squeezed the trigger, slowly. The rifle made a weird noise, and in a split-second she saw Charon's face contort in alarm as the barrel of the rifle warped and exploded, knocking Emily backward.

 _Shit,_ she thought, as she hit the ground. _Shit!_


	4. In Which Charon is Missing

Note: Emily's in a bind (literally) and some very nasty men are... being friendly (this is a warning).

Fixed some inconsistencies, spelling errors, etc. Whoops.

* * *

She was unconscious for a few seconds. Too long, she told herself. Whoever had been shooting at them had shot her a couple of times, and she felt the sting of the wounds. Emily jerked into wakefulness, and immediately recognized that something was wrong. Where was Charon?

She had been grabbed, after her rifle exploded. Hauled away from Charon, and she'd fought as hard as she could but one of them had knocked her head into a tree trunk―probably the tree she was tied to―and Charon was gone, she didn't know where. He was probably dead, if he hadn't come to get her. Emily gasped out a sob and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want him to be dead, but there really wasn't much else she could think.

His protectiveness in the past... She'd realized now he'd viewed every man other than himself as a threat. Emily bit her lip and looked up at her hands, and wished she had listened to him. Maybe... maybe she wouldn't be in this position, if she had.

She had been tied up by the mercenaries who were shooting at them. Her hands had been tied together over her head and were hung over a dead branch, which left her dangling against the tree trunk it was attached to. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, and she shook her head free of the grogginess to see five men standing near.

 _"Fucking assholes!"_ she snarled, kicking her feet out. The tree branch creaked as she moved, trying to push herself upward to a standing position. She couldn't keep her balance in the awkward position, and slid back down a couple of times before she stopped herself. It would be pointless to wear herself out before she had the opportunity to escape or to overexert herself and not be able to fight back.

One of them―the man she'd been shooting at, the leader―moved forward and looked down on her with his assault rifle in his hands. He was tall, almost as tall as Charon, with dark hair and eyes and skin, and she stared at him angrily.

"Honey, we're gonna be real good friends, aren't we?" he asked her, bending down to her face. "Gonna... get to _know_ each other."

Emily's eyes bored holes into his face, and she didn't reply. _Goddammit!_ She _really_ should have listened to Charon―she looked away when her eyes started filling up with tears. _Be patient,_ she thought. _Just... wait for the opportunity._ She wasn't going to let herself get gang raped―she shuddered, making the broken tree limb creak again.

After watching her distress for a moment, the leader nodded to himself and stood up. "Lloyd, practice time. Strip her."

Emily watched the one called Lloyd―a man who looked like he belonged in a horror holotape with his sunken cheeks and hollow-looking eyes―move closer to her. He bent down and began to undo her belts at her waist. She watched for a moment before bringing her knees up as hard and fast as she could, angling herself to hit the man in the side.

He jerked away and swore, and laughter cascaded through the group. "Man, you have to learn this shit, if you want to be part of the crew," the leader said. "Why the hell else would we let her wake up?"

"It's more fun when they fight, anyway," one of the others said, drawing a chuckle from another of the bastards.

Lloyd put a hand onto her knees, holding them together. He pushed down, pinning her against the trunk. He undid the last of the buckles on her pants as she rocked back and forth, trying to get free of his grip; she moved her arms up and down, trying to break the branch her hands were looped around. He moved his hand up to her jacket and unzipped it. Emily growled at him when he drew closer and tried to headbutt him, jerking forward.

She was rewarded for her efforts with a punch in the side of the head. Reeling in pain, she could feel him removing her pants and fought out as her knees were exposed. She kicked and screamed out curses, landing a solid hit on the side of Lloyd's head. Her own head spun from the contact.

"Listen here, little girl," the leader said, as he stood beside her and held his rifle under her chin. She stilled herself against the weapon, letting her legs go limp under Lloyd's hands. "You behave or I'll _shoot_ you. Simple as that."

 _"Fuck―"_ she bared her teeth as he pressed the barrel up into her chin and stopped her from talking. _"Fuck you!"_ she growled out through her teeth.

"It's just a little fun," he said. "You might even _enjoy_ it, you never know." He chuckled meanly and she stared into a brown face criss-crossed with scars, scars that edged into his beard and kept it from growing. He looked―he looked really familiar, and she couldn't place him. She was distracted by his appearance for a moment and swore through her teeth when Lloyd finished removing her pants, kicking and screaming again. Now she was naked from the waist down― _fuck!_ They were gonna―Emily fought back tears and heard music inside her head. She started crying again.

The leader reached up with a free hand and pulled her off of the tree. She sprawled forward into the dirt and coughed as her face was smashed into the ground by a rough hand on her hair. Lloyd was yanking her jacket from her back, painfully pulling her arms backward, and shoved her undershirt up over the back of her head. Emily tried to move up, off of the ground, yelling and kicking out her legs, but someone sat down on her inner knees and slapped her right on her bare ass.

She started in surprise. Laughter and mean words came through the air to her ears, muffled by the undershirt. Her jacket was ripped off and someone pinned her arms forward. Emily couldn't see anything but she could feel a gloved hand touching her ass, rubbing it in a circle.

She screamed. She couldn't stop herself.

She didn't see the two men with flamers approaching. Nobody in the group did. They were too busy arguing about who was going to go first, and she was sobbing loudly through the shirt over her head. She didn't even know something was going on until the crackling of flame came to her ears and screaming from the mercs joined it.

The weight on her legs eased and she immediately jumped up, pulling her shirt down, fists at the ready to punch someone―

But the mercs were too busy fighting off the two men with flamers, to notice. Emily looked around and found her pants and fled into the underbrush, away from the scene.

* * *

She'd twisted her ankle in the flight, tripping over the exposed dead root of a tree, falling flat on her face. Within seconds she'd jammed herself up against the trunk and was pulling on her pants, wincing at the pain of jamming her ankle through the leather pants leg.

She really _was_ getting fat. Her pants barely fit her anymore, she could barely put the buckles back to rights. She breathed faster, in fear. Had to get them on―she fiddled with the belts, staring through tear-filled eyes, then gave up with a frustrated sigh and slid down to the ground against the tree trunk.

The tears for Charon finally came. He _must_ be dead. There was no other reason―he would have come in and shot every single one of those bastards. There was no reason he shouldn't have been there with her, tied up―she sobbed and pressed her fingers into her eyes. If he were alive, he would have shot them until there were no more, or fought until he was killed at her side.

What the hell _happened?_ She tried to think straight but her head was scrambled in fear. When her rifle exploded―she'd been blown back―

Emily stared down at her hands. Her left thumb was still missing. Her hands were shaking, bloodied and raw. She had several wounds along her arms and her right shoulder. Her face was bleeding, slowly. She could feel a couple of cuts and she was pretty sure her nose had been broken when they pushed her into the ground.

Her rifle exploded on her and Charon had been standing beside her. She'd been knocked back by the explosion and it had distracted him. Emily pressed her hands back into her face. He'd been distracted by her getting injured, because―because they'd been arguing and she was being annoying again.

And then someone had come around the side of the tree trunk while she was trying to get her legs underneath her, and dragged her off, knocking her unconscious―

Emily breathed out shakily. Somewhere in between her being dragged off and waking up tied to the tree, someone had either killed him or wounded him so badly he couldn't save her. She dropped her hands near her feet, and blinked numbly. Shit, that meant he was out there, still―either dead or barely alive―

She bolted upright and looked back through the patchy trees and dead earth, then her feet started moving of their own volition, pushing her across the ground toward the place where the fight had begun.

She ducked behind a rock and hissed to herself in surprise when she saw two men with flamers walking along the highway. They were wearing metal armor, walking side by side, their pace matching one another. Whoever they were, she owed them, but she didn't want to show them where she was lurking. They might be just as bad at the mercenaries―

A soft whistle caught her attention from behind her, and she spun around to see another man in metal armor with a flamer, pointed directly at her. Emily stared up at him with wide eyes, and opened her mouth to yell.

"Quiet now," he said, through a face wrap that muffled his words. "The slavers are dead. You're safe." One hand moved from the flamer to a familiar piece of leather draped across his shoulder. "This your jacket?"

Emily snapped her mouth shut and nodded, and took it gingerly. One of the pockets was open and she watched a slightly burnt piece of paper flutter down. She went to retrieve it, but the man in metal armor grabbed it out of the air. He looked down at it and then handed it back to her.

"I'm John Turtle," he said, putting the flamer down on the ground, and extending a hand. "The other two are Payne and Knox. They call us Dragonstongue. We run out of Gambrill. Keep this area safe from danger."

Emily just stared at his hand and then back up to his face, feeling the fragile edges of Charon's contract under her fingertips. The paper was bloody now, smeared over the careful application of tape she'd laid on it. She'd kept it because she wanted to remember why she'd freed him―

But he was probably _dead―_

Emily sniffled and shoved the contract back into her pocket, pulling on the jacket. "Emily," she said, to the man. She pulled the zipper together and closed the jacket. She still didn't have her boots, they should be around here somewhere...

She jumped when two boots hit the ground beside her, thumping in the dry dirt. Looking up she saw the other two metal armored people coming over the top of the rock. They looked to John Turtle and moved to his side, watching the distance around them.

Emily grabbed her shoes with two fingers and pulled them on, trying to shake her head free of the confusion.

"Don't think you're from the area," John Turtle said, pulling his face mask down over his mouth and lifting the black-lensed goggles from his eyes. Emily saw he was brown-skinned and brown-eyed, but he was... Hispanic, maybe. She squinted at him and finished pulling on her boots. He was tattooed on the face, a sun symbol around one of his eyes. His straight black hair was as long as hers but pulled into a ponytail behind his neck.

"I'm not," she said, sullenly. "I'm lost."

"Where's your guardian?" he asked, casting a glance around the highway. "He should not have brought you along the highway. This is a well-known slaver area."

"What makes you think I have a guardian?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

John Turtle's mouth tugged up in a soft smile. "You've got a contract," he said, gesturing at the pocket she'd put it in. "Must have a guardian."

Emily stood up straighter. "My companion and I are not from around here," she said, trying not to burst into tears at the thought of Charon, "and we were separated."

"Dragonstongue is pledged to protecting the outlying area of Gambrill," he said, nodding at her. "We'll help you find him."

Emily sighed. "Okay," she said, in a small voice. "Okay."


	5. In Which Emily is Missing

_A memory ~_

He had underestimated her intelligence.

Connie Alexander was a scientist and researcher, studying the power lines in the Annapolis area, traveling the circuit and repairing the substations that she could. Peter followed her, protecting her from the ravages of the wastes.

She poked at the boundaries of the contract, and corrected what she deemed unnecessary behavior. She had ordered him to not interfere in her fistfights unless she was in mortal danger. These fistfights happened nearly every time they entered a bar―and she drank frequently, so he expected this to continue. After he refused to follow this order because it contradicted the contract, she began making him wait elsewhere.

He would inevitably end up standing outside of the building, his teeth gnashing against themselves, trying not to imagine what might be going on inside of the bar and listening carefully. The contract was ironclad, however. He could not go against her orders, if she wished him to wait.

Even after the fight she nearly died, during. She had stumbled outside, bloodied and bruised and nearly unconscious, he still could not go against the contract. He had applied stimpaks to her and guarded her sleeping form until she woke, as the contract provided.

As smart as she was, as competent in her position of a scientist within the "Annapolis Power Renewal Committee"... She had her flaws. She was heavily addicted to alcohol. When she woke from the near-coma, she was angry and she beat him about the head and neck. After a while, she had gone back to her normal cheerful self.

He realized that her addiction to alcohol was what caused the dramatic change in her personality. He... could not criticize her and remove her from such places, even though there was threat, because she was smarter than the contract. She knew to order him to wait.

It was in one of those bars that she came across a man he would come to hate with a passion. A man who, for some unknown reason, she would come to love more than life itself.

A man he would know by the name Luther.

* * *

Charon turned his head. Pain shot through his shoulder and arm, wrapped into a knot around a dead branch. He had struck a tree on his descent over the edge of the rocks―his lower body was in pain as well, probably from tumbling along the ground like a rag doll.

 _Emily._

He sat upright and smelled something terrible, and his legs were burning. With a quick motion, he withdrew his legs from the edge of a pool of water, and saw the leather sloughing off his calves. He pulled his combat knife and cut the leather, peeling back the legs of his pants and discarding it to the side. His boots followed, all the rubber and leather melting in contact with the pool.

Looking about, he saw he was in a hole of some kind. Jutting rocks around him and a couple of blackened trees sticking out over a steaming and nauseating pool of fetid water. There was a rough semicircle of rocks around him and a narrow opening leading out in front of him, upward-sloping ground blocking him from seeing what was beyond it. He had fallen from the rocks above him and brought down a tree, which caught his arm and was lying halfway into the water.

Charon could see the dead wood fizzing in the water, cracking and starting to dissolve. Whatever was in the water was danger. He pulled his arm away from the tree branch, feeling his bones cracking with the movement. The pain was irrelevant. He needed to get away from the danger. The tree itself slid further into the boiling pool and nearly splashed him with the acid water as he moved away.

There was no other sound in the air except for his movement and the crackling of the tree. Where was Emily? He turned his head the other way and he could not see her. She had irritated him during their fight on the highway―she knew better than that. He had not noticed the threat of the mercenaries until it was too late, because of her. He growled under his breath. He'd shot and killed at least two of them―and the leader had tossed him over the rocks as he reloaded his shotgun, knocking him backward with a well-placed charge.

His head ached and he stood, letting his arm fall limply to his side. It was broken. The injury was not especially terrible, unless he needed to shoot someone. He ignored it and looked around again.

He needed to find Emily. They had been up on the highway, fighting the mercs―

His feet turned and slammed the ground back up to the highway, pushing him up the rocks where his arm could not grasp. Emily was alone with the mercs―he had to get to her. The urgency, the need to get to her, stirred up emotion other than anger. When he was under the contract, he did not feel fear or panic. Should he have been roughly separated from his employers, he would have sought out his employer calmly and quickly. Emily was not his employer, any longer. She was... something else.

Now, he was worried; because he did not know what would happen if she were left alone with the mercenaries. He had felt that way only once before, when he was thrown to the radiation. If Emily were in danger he would only blame himself, just as he had before.

Charon was afraid. If he lost Emily―

* * *

His shotgun was halfway up the rocks, and he retrieved it without issue, pulling himself over the edge and up onto the ground near the highway. The deadened tree that she had used as cover showed the effects of her sniper rifle exploding, and was splattered with blood. Her blood―he could smell Emily in the air. She smelled... like a breath of fresh air in a dead world. She was too clean for her own good; too good for the filth of this world. Even if she had problems.

Charon scanned the area quickly, retrieving Emily's pack, and came across the charred remains of the mercenaries. They had moved down the highway, away from the trunk, and Charon saw the scuff marks on the ground which told him there had been a fight. No blood, only burned bodies.

None of them were female, and he was grateful that she had not been burned alive. There was a disturbing track on the ground, however. Someone had been pushed into the dirt, leaving an impression. Blood near the area of the head. His eyes followed the outline until he saw it was distinctly female.

 _Fuck!_ Charon turned away from the track mark. Emily―

He knew danger, he had told her repeatedly not to act stupid! She had never taken him seriously! She had not cleaned her rifle properly, and it had exploded. _He_ should have been paying attention to that, it was _his_ fault for not minding her. _He_ knew she was an idiot, far too young to keep herself alive, that was part of the reason she had wanted him to stay even after she had broken his contract.

And her foolhardy desire to go to that town... even if they had needed supplies, she ought to have let _him_ take the lead. He would have been able to handle a lot more violence than her, if he had not been distracted by her inanity. Without her around, he was so much more effective. More able to do what _needed_ to be done.

Charon groaned to himself. They only weakened each other, now. He ought to have left her before she left the Capital; he would not have shot her Pip-Boy or caused her to lose a thumb. And she would not have wanted to explore the new area.

His eyes swept back over the lines in the dirt. If the merc bastards had taken her alive, they _would_ rape her. His chest tightened. But they were all dead. He hoped that she had been the one who burned them.

How long had he been in a memory state, at the bottom of the rocks? How long had she been alone on the highway with the mercs?

 _And why had she not come to find him?_

He growled. His feet turned back to the direction they had come from. She was annoyed at him for having memories, she had made that clear. She might have simply walked off into the wastes, might she not? Could she have abandoned him because she could not find him right away and assumed he was either dead or had abandoned her? The last time he had found himself separated from her, she had not gone anywhere. She had thought he was dead.

Charon doubted that she would leave the area, if she could not find him. Emily was... attached to him, _too_ attached. If she thought he were dead, she would have laid herself onto the ground and cried like she had when her father died. She had told him she _loved_ him.

He looked down the highway. It was embarrassing, such a sentiment. He was not sure how he felt in return. He did not... _know._ How it felt to be in love.

Maybe he did, though. Maybe he did love the _stupid_ girl.

* * *

 _A memory ~_

Luther.

He remembered Luther. Luther had been violent; he had once set a man on fire for simply _looking_ at Connie Alexander. He curtailed all threats before Peter could even comprehend that they existed; Luther did not like Peter, and made his dislike very clear from the beginning. Connie Alexander did not see the hatred the man bore toward him. She viewed him as a blessing, because he loved her.

And Peter knew that Luther did love his employer, as often as his jealousy reared its ugly head. Peter did not wish for her to be harmed. Luther would not harm her. He would only mutilate and murder others for being near her when he did not want them to be. Which was why he hated Peter. Luther was not allowed to harm him, because Connie Alexander needed him as a bodyguard.

Even if Luther was a brutish and violent man, Peter could not go against Connie Alexander's orders. She had expressly forbade him from harming the man, even if she was in danger. Peter did not like this. But he could not ignore the contract.

Luther now held one half of the contract. Connie Alexander had ordered Peter to consider him a second employer. The contract did not prevent him from having more than one employer. He could only accept the situation, and do as they wished. Luther enjoyed causing him to murder, by pointing out a target and asking him to shoot. He did this while Connie Alexander was not around and she was unaware of Luther's more nefarious use of her bodyguard. Peter was not allowed to speak freely; Luther had ordered him not to speak to her, ever again.

He obeyed the contract. There was no reason he should not. Luther was not a threat, as much as Peter might wish he was.

The next step of Connie Alexander's journey around the Annapolis area had brought them to a small town built around a power substation. Connie Alexander and Luther investigated the substation and spent a few weeks in the adjacent building, wiring the consoles and attempting to bring the facility online.

Peter had guarded them, as was expected. He observed that their relationship was changing. He saw Connie Alexander growing more and more obsessive over the man. As his employer, Luther was exempt from his violence. But Peter wanted very much to destroy him. Luther took direct control over Connie Alexander, and argued with her frequently. Before he was considered an employer to Luther, their relationship had been pacific.

Now it was violent and wrong. Peter felt the strain when he witnessed Connie being struck. Everything in him demanded that he push the man off her and unload his shotgun into Luther's face; but the contract prevented his action. Luther was still an employer.

It would not be long before Luther would provoke Peter into causing her death.

Connie Alexander became pregnant, and Luther did not wish for the child to be born.


	6. In Which Emily is Nosy

Charon stared blankly at a charred body while he was in his memory state, unaware of what was going on around him. He only roused from the distraction when a relieved shriek hit his ears and he felt hands on his broken left arm.

His right hand shot out and grabbed the person where the throat should be, and he turned to see it was Emily. Immediately he dropped her, his hand shaking. He had hurt her again. But she should _know_ better than to startle him―

"Dammit, Charon," she groaned, rubbing her neck. She'd fallen to the ground when he released her and was pushing herself up with bloodied hands. She was in one piece, at least, if bloody and wounded from the previous encounter, and slightly choked by him. Her nose had been broken. A bruise was spreading across her face.

He stared at her for a second or two, his mouth opened to speak, until they were interrupted. A clicking noise and the scrape of metal on metal sounded, and his head jerked around to the source. Emily coughed and pulled herself to a standing position.

"Move away, Emily," a man in metal armor said. He was holding a flamer and it was aimed on Charon.

Charon's shotgun came up and his broken arm went out in front of Emily, pushing her back. He growled at the man, holding the gun directly on the man's face.

 _"What?"_ She shot the man an annoyed glance. "What are you talking about?" She sighed and muttered something under her breath.

Charon did not know where she had found the metal armored men―there were three of them, and they all had the same armor and were all equipped with a flamer―but he would hazard a guess that they had saved her from the mercenaries. They had protected her where he could not.

He had failed to protect her. It stung his pride. He did not like this trio. And they were holding their weapons on him, which was not endearing them to him.

"You said you'd help me find my guardian―" Emily was saying. "This is he."

The leader of the group looked him up and down and then turned his goggles onto Emily. "But he is a ghoul?" he asked, his tone cautious.

Charon growled at him and moved his hand back onto Emily's shoulder, laying his arm firmly across her upper chest. She grabbed his wrist and squeezed it, sending a wave of pain through his arm and into his shoulder. _"...So?"_ she asked the man.

He turned his head to look at one of the others, then back at Emily. "Never seen a guardian was a ghoul, before," he said, slowly. "That's all."

"Well―" she started, pushing Charon's hand off her shoulder. "I hired him, he protects me," she said, her voice firm. "We are friends. Lower your weapon, John."

The metal man raised his eyebrow at the girl, then slowly lowered the flamer and held out a hand to indicate the others to do so as well. "Charon, lower your gun," Emily said. She was not as hard when she spoke to him, her voice becoming almost gentle. "Please?"

Charon dropped his right arm, grabbed her with his broken arm, and hauled her away from the three, pushing her across the dirt and corpses. She protested, her hands clutching at his arm. It was painful and he growled. "Charon!" she said. "Knock it off."

He paused. It was noticeable, the soft attitude toward him. She had meant what she said about loving him.

He groaned and brought her to his chest, holding her as gently as he could manage. Ignoring the pain. He had earned the broken arm, for letting them become separated. "Emily," he rasped, lowering his head to her hair. She made a surprised noise as he pressed his cheek into hers, moving his mouth near her ear. "Are you harmed?"

"Other than my nose―" she sighed. "I'm _fine,_ Charon."

"You were not raped?"

Emily jerked back from him, pushing him away. She crossed her arms and looked down at the ground, and her voice wobbled. "Almost," she said, defensively. "But the Dragonstongue saved me." She gestured at the trio who were watching them carefully. She glared up at him. "No thanks to _you―"_

Charon growled and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it hard. "If you had not _distracted_ me―"

Emily scoffed. "You can't blame me for you not doing _your_ job!"

He released her then. She would not take responsibility for her actions. She did not like to do so, in the past. But it annoyed him to the point of anger. "It is not my job to keep you alive," he rasped. "Not any longer."

Emily opened and closed her mouth, startled. "But..." She pouted and he felt blood pounding through him at the sight of her full lips, but ignored it. He reminded himself that he did _not_ desire her, and focused instead on the anger he felt.

Anger was far better than the alternative, which was that he truly did love the stupid girl. He still did not know whether or not he could consider the feelings he was having as love; he would much rather imagine that he was confused by her than consider himself weakened by some form of attachment other than physical desire. He would―he would not want to think that he was in such a way, to be so linked to her. It would get them both killed.

"The only reason I am here is because you like sex," he snapped, and pushed her away from him, stalking off down the road.

He felt like an idiot, then. She had taken advantage of him for sex. And he had let her, because he felt―he felt something other than anger for her, and they had a history. The events of the past had kept them together for this long.

He should have left her back in the Republic of Dave. Should have stayed away from her after getting himself nearly killed at the purifier. He should have walked away once he had the chance, after she'd broken the contract.

He should _never_ have made it okay for her.

Charon glanced back at Emily and found she was talking to the others. He scoffed at this; she _would_ be making friends while he grappled with his internal demons. Emily was a social creature. He was not. She would always be the face of their relationship. He was... the monster under the bed. In no way would Emily ever admit publicly that she was sleeping with him. He growled to himself.

"Charon," she called. "These guys came from that little town down there. _I'm_ going to go with them―are _you_ coming?" She sounded angry. So angry she might leave him behind, if he did not answer. And he would be left in the wastes without shoes and half his pants cut away from his contact with a pool of acid, and a broken arm.

He stared up at the sky for a moment, blankly looking at the clouds that skidded across the blue. She'd told him once that his eyes were the same color, in one of her more romantic moments. As much as he would love to walk away now, he could not. He had little ammo, he had no caps, and without Emily―

He still could not leave Emily, as much as she drove him insane. They... there was no one else out there who would willingly be with him. And as much as she irritated him, he knew she was loyal. She was loyal to a fault, and it would be her undoing if anything were to befall him.

With a muffled groan, he turned back to her and joined her side as they were led to the town.

* * *

Gambrill was about the same size as Megaton. Concrete from the fallen parts of the overpass had been piled up around the outside edges of the town to provide a barrier, roughly as tall as Charon himself, and a chain-link gate marked the entrance to the town. Brahmin roamed the outlying area, pasture marked off with rusty barbed wire and weathered wooden posts. There wasn't much for them to graze on but brush.

Overall, the town reminded him very much of the areas surrounding the Republic of Dave, excepting that there was more water. Puddles, pools, even a tongue of the river, dotted the landscape. He could remember the place hazily, when Connie Alexander had been there before. John Turtle and the Dragonstongue followed them inside.

This was the first time his memories had met reality, as he stared up at the power substation located along the road the town was built upon.

While he stared, Emily had stopped and was rubbing her hands in pain. Charon noticed this before she gasped in surprise and darted off to the side of a metal shack. All he could do was follow her and hope she was not about to get herself killed―

A couple of Brotherhood of Steel men were standing with a detachment of the metal-armored men, speaking in low tones with one another. The sound of their voices through the power helmets met Emily and Charon's ears as she bustled her way over to see what was going on.

She had been made a member of the Brotherhood, for helping with the purifier. He recalled that, as she marched right up to the Brotherhood men and smiled as sweetly as she could, covered in blood, her nose broken and face dusty from the dirt she'd been pressed into.

Just another day in the wasteland, as far as Charon was concerned. He suppressed an eye roll and moved up behind her, putting his hands behind his back. And she was being aggravating, putting herself into other's business.

"Knight Captain?" she asked, beaming at the man nearest her. "Or is it...?"

"Oh, goddammit," the man muttered. "Hello, Emily."

The men around them watched in silence. Charon recognized the voice as the soldier she had been seeing before he returned from Maryland. The one who had disapproved of him. Emily looked genuinely surprised.

"Irving?" she asked. "Wow, what are―"

"This is official Brotherhood business, Emily. Please do not bother us." He shut her down very quickly. It would not work. Emily would always fight. Charon waited for her to reply.

"Hey, Elder Lyons made me a member. I am part of the Brotherhood, even if you don't like me," she snarled. "And you don't gotta act so rude. What's going on?"

A patient sigh came from the soldier. "With the Enclave broken, the Brotherhood is working to eradicate slavery in the area," he said, patronizingly. "Nothing you can do to help, Emily. Stay out of it."

"Are you kidding?" She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. "I'm all about getting rid of _those_ assholes. Who do you think took down Paradise Falls?!" She huffed at him. "By myself, too," she muttered.

"Odd words for one who holds a contract," the one she had called John said, coming up behind them. He nodded to the other three men in metal, and they saluted him with a quick gesture. Emily dropped her hands from her side and looked at one group, then the other.

"I don't hold a contract," she said, her voice quiet.

"My eyes do not deceive me, even in my old age," John said to her. "You do indeed have a contract, and you did refer to this ghoul as your guardian."

"Emily," the soldier said, staring at her. "You've had that ghoul for a long time―"

"I do _not_ hold his contract!" she said, her voice rising in anger. "It's _broken!_ _I broke it!_ Here!" She pulled out the paper and Charon's stomach boiled.

Why had she kept the damn thing? He told her to destroy it, and she had declined at the time―he thought because she was drunk and being flippant. She had been so determined to break his conditioning, he expected she would have burned the paper immediately. He had assumed that she had burned it at some point.

She _had_ kept it, however. Perhaps it was sentimental. Emily was far too emotional for her own good. Charon only hoped that she had not kept the torn paper because she wished he were under her control again―and with the possessive nature she had, he really did wonder.

"Here, Charon, rip it up," she said, thrusting the paper into his face. _"Show_ them."

She had taped it back together and trimmed up the burnt edges. His eyes widened in anger at the sight. She had _fixed_ it. After ripping it up! He growled at her. "You do it," he said. "I do not wish to touch that thing."

Emily stared up at him, face angry and contorted. "Fine!" she shrieked, and tore it in half, pulling the tape and shredding the paper. "There! Are you happy, now?"

She was staring at Charon as she asked this. He did not return the gaze.

"Admirable control on the part of your guardian," John said, slowly, his voice hard. "But you simply _cannot_ break his conditioning that way."

"What?" Emily turned her face to meet his. "What do you―"

"It's just a piece of paper, Emily," John said, and looked at Charon. "The true contract is governed by a series of conditioned orders, triggered with a start-up and shut-down phrase. It is in his head."

She looked confused. "I don't get it," she said. "Words trigger the conditioning?"

 _"Do Re Mi,"_ John said, and pointed at Charon.

He obeyed the contract.


	7. In Which Charon is Under Contract

Emily was surprised to see Irving heading a group of Brotherhood soldiers in the area. If Elder Lyons had been trying to get rid of slavers east of D.C.―he should have _asked_ her! She would have _gladly_ helped! ...Where were the rest of Lyon's Pride, though? Seemed odd that he was alone... but then, he'd always been good at sneaking around by himself.

And―John Turtle was talking about the contract and saying Charon wasn't free? That was _bullshit._ If she hadn't destroyed the contract physically―Charon wouldn't have broken free of the brainwashing. That was what had caused it, right? Her trying to burn it after she'd torn it in half? She was reasonably sure that was what had done the job. What else could it have been?

But then John Turtle turned to Charon and said _"Do Re Mi,"_ and Charon's loose stance tightened up, and he removed his weapon from his back, holding it at attention. His body language changed, becoming more guarded.

"Charon?" she asked, uncertain what he was doing. What John Turtle had meant to _do_ with the words? "What are you―"

The ghoul's eyes moved from one side of the group to the other, and his hand drew her backward, behind him. He released her abruptly, and she stumbled on her own feet. "I do not like the look of this place," he said, tonelessly. Acting―like he had while under the contract.

Emily sputtered. "What _the hell did you do_ , John?!" she cried. _"What―"_

"Illustrating a point," John Turtle said. "You see? He is not free of the contract. He'll never be free."

Emily grabbed Charon's arm and heard him grunt in pain. He did not give into her tugging. "Undo _that!"_ she yelled at John Turtle. "Undo _whatever_ you just _did!"_

John Turtle pulled his mouth cover away and pushed his goggles up on his face. "Can't," he said, staring at her, curiously. "We know how to activate the contract, that is all. Your guardian may have been partially free of the conditioning―there are code words to relax it―but none to fully remove it. He was relaxed before, somehow. Now he is not."

Emily's heart lurched. _"No!"_ she shrieked. _"No! You―"_ She grabbed Charon's arm and pulled him to face her. "Charon―tell me I'm being _stupid―insult me―!"_

He stared at her blankly, unblinking. He did not speak, or otherwise react to her.

Emily's eyes widened and she started crying. It was _true_ ―but how had she broken it, before? She couldn't remember―she'd gone to the Vault and found the G.E.C.K. and left him at the caves, and then―

He'd gone back to Underworld because she was gone for a long time, kidnapped by the Enclave, and Colonel Autumn's stupid holotape had been lodged in her brain. All the aggravation she'd put him through. All the things she had done to try to break him free―she'd thought tearing up the contract had made him free. Or attempting to burn it―but it _hadn't..._ Charon would never be free, if what John Turtle was saying was true.

"How _could_ you?!" she turned on John Turtle. "How could you turn him _back?!_ If you want to get rid of slavers so badly―this is _just as bad as that!"_ She wiped tears from her eyes. "You didn't even―" He didn't even ask her permission, or take Charon's own thoughts into account!

"It's clear you came across some kind of code word, unintentionally," John Turtle said. "Maybe we can figure it out, if you are inclined to aid us against the slavers in Annapolis." He looked over her shoulder at the Brotherhood soldiers. "Captain Gallows, you must let this woman help us."

"I'm not helping _you!"_ she shrieked, angrily. "You just― _you just ruined Charon!"_

She couldn't... couldn't tell them what Charon _meant_ to her. It would be dangerous. Emily was no stranger to drama, and she understood that if Irving and John Turtle knew she was sleeping with Charon, that she actually had feelings for him―it might mean prejudice. It might mean jealousy on Irving's part, he had once wanted her―wanted her to stay with him and no one else. He'd... let her go, when she broke it off.

And John Turtle... had been surprised to see Charon was a ghoul, maybe because of the prevailing disgust that people had for ghouls, or maybe because it was unusual for her to be traveling with a ghoul, anyway. She was aware it was weird. Not too many smoothskins enjoyed having ghouls around.

But it had always been like that, and no one in the Capital wasteland had ever remarked on her unusual companion... beyond Irving. Because Emily was the Lone Wanderer. Because of her reputation. And because Irving had wanted to be with her.

"If you don't wish to help us," Irving was saying, "then you need to _leave,_ Emily. It isn't safe here."

He still cared... as if that was any consolation―

She growled at the men and stomped away. Charon was right, they should not have come east. She should've _listened_ to him!

* * *

Emily looked around Gambrill, then found somewhere she could rent a room.

She replaced his armor, asked him what had happened to his boots. He told her in an empty voice that he had been pushed over the rocks near the encounter with the mercenaries―she corrected him in that they were slavers―and that his boots had melted along with the lower half of his pants in a pool of acid water.

She hated having to command him to speak. He would not, otherwise. Her eyes filled with tears as she explained that she didn't want him to be like this―he did not respond, merely stared at her and put his hands behind his back. She was aggravating him. It made her feel a little better.

"Charon," she said, holding his cheeks and looking him in the eyes. "You _remember,_ right? What happened while you were free from the contract? I want you to speak freely."

"I remember," he said. "But such behavior did not keep you safe. I cannot act in that way, now."

She sniffled and let him go, letting her hands trail over his chest. "You remember that I _love_ you, right?" she asked, shakily. Her hands stopped at his stomach and grabbed the leather, pulling herself closer. He would not move to her. She would have to move to him.

"The contract does not allow for sentiment," he said, and she lost it, bawling and shoving her face into his chest.

Emily ordered him to lie down in the hotel bed and crawled into it beside him, clinging to him, and cried while singing "Pastures of Plenty" in a shaking voice. He grumbled the whole time, clearly disliking the activity. She sobbed herself to sleep after having to order him to be quiet.

She woke up a few hours later with stiff arms from clutching at him, but dragged herself out of the bed and went to find Irving. Irving would―if she asked―he would help her.

Emily swallowed and looked back at Charon as he trailed behind her, his weapon at the ready. She would have to use Irving, to get him to help her. Like she had been using Charon before, by ordering him around. She didn't _like_ that... but she wasn't going to let Charon stay this way, not when she'd worked so hard to save him from what was essentially _slavery_ ―she cared too much for him. She had no one else, and he had no one else.

She kept telling herself that but she knew it wasn't true. Even if Charon was back under the contract, she had plenty of people who liked and cared for her. The Brotherhood―Irving―even Elder Lyons was fond of her, in his own way. She had friends in Megaton and friends in the Lincoln Memorial, among Hannibal's people. Friends in Underworld―Carol thought she was dear. And there was Three Dog, and Roy Philips and his people in Tenpenny Tower, and the kids in Little Lamplight thought she was okay for a 'mungo... The people in Arefu, too.

Emily sighed and wiped her face and tried to think about why Irving liked her before. He'd never been fond of Charon, she knew that. He didn't much like ghouls, anyway, since Greta had damn near poisoned him with her terrible food. He'd... liked her _quiet._ Quiet and not aggressive―which was everything that she wasn't. She hadn't been herself at the time, lost in her thoughts after finishing the purifier, and not having Charon around.

Emily told Charon to wait at the door of the tent that the Brotherhood had set up, and went inside.

* * *

"I'll help you," she told him. "I want to. I _need_ to―"

Irving turned his head to face her. He was wearing his power armor so she couldn't see his face. Made it harder to judge how he felt about her, how he felt about her coming along with them on whatever mission they were undertaking.

"Maybe your ghoul is better this way," he said, rudely. Emily sucked in a breath and frowned. "John Turtle says you were almost the victim of slavers, up on the highway."

"That was my _own_ fault," she said, crossly. "I hadn't been taking care of my weapon. My rifle barrel warped and exploded. All on _me."_

He knew how she felt about Charon being a slave, how it wasn't right. She'd told him about it when she refused to give up on Charon, when she'd left Irving at the Citadel for the last time. He'd offered her protection, then... if she would have stayed with him. She had not taken his offer.

Irving shook his head at her comment but didn't reply. Dammit, she wished he would take his helmet off―she couldn't gauge how to go about this without some kind of cue. Was he―was he _angry_ that she was here, or was he _glad_ to see her?

"You can lecture me about _that_ later, Irving," she huffed. "Right now I want to help. _No one_ deserves to be enslaved by anything or anyone―"

Irving chuckled, interrupting her. "Same as always," he said, and stood from his seat. "You aren't prepared for this, Emily. How do you plan to take action against an enemy without a weapon?"

She sputtered and looked down, fiddling with her hands. He was right. She did need a weapon. ...Maybe that was a cue, she could use it to work her way into his trust again. It made her feel sick to her stomach, to want to use him. She didn't dislike him; she'd left because he wanted a wife, and a family. Emily... had wanted to belong, but she did _not_ belong with him.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, and sighed. "I don't know," she said. "I..." She made a frustrated noise and looked up at him. "Help me, Irving? You trusted me, once. Can't you trust me again?"

He regarded her without speaking for a minute, before tilting his head at her. "I've always trusted you, Emily," he said, softly. _"You_ left. Not me."

"I know." She shoved her hands down to her sides and fought the urge to ball up her fists. "I need your help, now. I put too much work in freeing Charon to let him go back to how he was before."

"Stop talking about the ghoul for a moment," he said, sounding annoyed. He was quiet for a moment, and cleared his throat. "...How have you _been,_ Emily?"

She blinked at him. "Could be better." He was taking the bait―he wanted a conversation. A normal conversation between two friends. Like there wasn't a mission to be undertaken or slavers out there to take down... She remembered the men up on the highway and shuddered to herself. She'd thought they were going to―shit, she owed John Turtle for saving her life and stopping the slavers from gang-raping her. _Guess I have to forgive him for turning Charon back into a slave,_ she thought. _Not that I appreciate that "favor" much._

"You look healthy."

"I look _fat,"_ she said, rolling her eyes at him. "Raided a snack cake factory. That's all I've had to eat for weeks." She breathed out evenly. "I'd say you look good too, but you always have that damn helmet on."

Irving removed his helmet, and smiled at her. Emily felt ten times more guilty, now. He _was_ glad to see her. "I can find you a weapon," he said, slowly. "But maybe I should explain what is going on in Annapolis, first."

"Okay," she said, catching his eyes and holding them. "Okay."

This was going to end very badly, she thought. Badly for her, and badly for Irving. She was going to have to break his heart before the end of it.


	8. In Which Irving is Important

Note: Oh Emily...

* * *

She had a nightmare that night, after Irving told her about the slavers. In her nightmare she was tied to the tree again, and the slavers were trying to get at her. Only, this time, _no one_ saved her. Charon was dead in her dream. She was _alone._ There was _nothing she could do―_

Emily woke up crying. Charon didn't say anything, just stared at her from the corner of the room they'd―she'd rented.

She remembered that he was back under contract and her world just sort of imploded.

After she calmed down, she sat on the bed and curled her knees up to her chest. There... there was a lot to consider. It would keep her mind off the slavers and―she stared at Charon. He stared right back without blinking.

Emily uncapped a bottle of scotch and started drinking again.

The Pride was orchestrating an assault on the Annapolis slavers, but first Irving had to scout. He was reporting on the local movement of slavers, watching their routes, making notes on how heavily armed they were. So far, they moved in groups of four or five, but they weren't taking any slaves from Gambrill or anywhere west of it. Dragonstongue kept them out.

Emily swirled the liquid inside the bottle of scotch around slowly. Irving had been dispatched east by Sarah to scout the A-Line. That was what the slavers called their route, Irving said. Some stupid slaver joke, that. A dumb play on the Underground Railroad. Emily snorted to herself and took a long drink.

For years, Annapolis slavers had been exporting their "wares" across the Capital Wasteland, ferrying them through Paradise Falls and other slaver junctions. The eventual destination was northwest; Irving seemed reluctant to talk about that part. Emily had wondered why, but ignored it. She would get that information when it came time.

The men who John Turtle had killed on the highway―along with his crew―were members of the slaver group, who roamed the highway looking for slaves. Emily had been unlucky to run across them, but was lucky in that she had gotten away.

Jerome Walker. She knew he'd looked familiar. He'd looked like Leroy Walker, the slaver she'd killed at the Lincoln Memorial. It was a definite link to Paradise Falls, but Emily had killed those assholes―

It had been before Charon's time. Emily had been fresh out of the Vault, wandering around, helping Moira with that landmine stuff. Came over a ridge on her way north and saw the town, thought it was an opportunity. It wasn't. If she hadn't had all those landmines with her, she probably would have died.

She drank her scotch and stared at the opposite wall, her eyes drifting over the corrugated metal. She'd lost Dogmeat, too. It was disappointing, finding a dog in the wastes that wasn't trying to eat her and immediately having him get killed by some stupid slavers. She sniffled a little. She kind of missed him, even if she'd only had him for a day or two.

She flicked her eyes to Charon. At least the dog wouldn't... wouldn't complain about being a teddy bear. Tears stung her eyes. She needed to talk to Irving―

Even if he wanted to, Irving couldn't just march into the slaver camp and take it down. Not enough soldiers, or info. Elder Lyons wanted more information before leading an assault against the A-Line. Emily could see where he was coming from, though. Lyons wanted slavery eradicated. It wasn't how the Brotherhood normally operated, performing such philanthropy. But Lyons was like her father, he wanted to help people. He saw how bad the East Coast was, wanted to make the place safer. It took time to do something like that, without great loss of life.

John Turtle wanted to storm Annapolis and free them all. But he and Dragonstongue were only six people. Seven, if Emily decided to help him. She didn't know that she wanted to, couldn't trust him after that code word shit.

She finished the scotch and stared at the ghoul across the room. Irving was the only real choice right now. He would help her...

"Wait here, Charon," she said, peeling herself off of the bed and leaving the room.

* * *

It was... the middle of the night. Emily couldn't tell the time without her Pip-Boy. The moon was directly overhead and completely full, lighting the broken asphalt clearly. She was drunk and in a bad mood, wandering the town. She missed Megaton. She missed being able to tell where she was and she missed...

She missed Charon, being mean. She missed his grumpiness and the way he snorted when he didn't believe a word she said. She missed his rough hands on her hips, his hot breath down her back―

She growled to herself and kicked a tin can, knocking it up and away from her. The overpass above shaded part of the town from the moonlight, including the Brotherhood tent. Emily stood outside of the shadow and wobbled back and forth. Normally, getting drunk made her feel better. It hadn't, this time. She was on the verge of tears, staring at the open flap of Irving's tent, wondering what the hell was going on.

Her chest felt tight, squeezed into the leather armor. She was hungry again but the only thing she had in her pocket was a snack cake and she was so fucking _sick_ of those things...

She missed Charon holding her at night, keeping the bad dreams away. _So many bad dreams―_

She shook her head free of the thoughts about the ghoul and squeezed her nose where it was broken, gasping with the pain. She couldn't let herself get distracted.

"Emily, are you alright?"

She spun her head and wobbled with the motion, blinking away tears. Irving. Her mouth opened and shut. "I doan know," she said. "Ev'r thin' is _w-weird_ ri'now."

"Are you drunk?" he asked her, and she noticed he had taken off his helmet, holding it under an arm. His face was blurry but she remembered him clearly enough to fill in the details. She remembered... how nice his smile was for her, earlier.

"Yeah," she said, moodily. Felt guilty for enjoying his smile.

"Why?" His hand came out and steadied her. She hadn't realized she was moving. Man, she was really, really, drunk. Too drunk to be thinking straight, that was sure.

Emily laughed out loud, bitterly. "Ev'r thin' _sucks!"_ She felt his fingers tighten on her shoulder and willed herself not to say anything else. She was being dumb again.

But she had to be―she _had_ to play―

"Emily..." Irving made a disapproving noise, and she looked down at her feet. She disappointed everyone she'd ever met. "I am sorry that John did what he did. He has a lot more vested in the guardians than you know―"

"No―" she sighed and wiped her eyes. "No, you, you doan _get_ it."

"Get what, Emily," Irving said, patiently.

She put her hand on his, on her shoulder, feeling the thick rubber of the gloves. She stared up at him. "I―I―" She stuttered and forgot what she was thinking about. She sighed in exasperation. "I can't―" Her head was slowly filling up with fuzz.

"Emily, you are too drunk to be wandering about," he told her. "Come on, let's go."

"Go where," she muttered, as he took her by an elbow and directed her into the Brotherhood tent. She stumbled and almost fell over her own feet.

"You aren't in any condition to go anywhere but to sleep," he said, his voice beginning to take on a weird echo in her head.

"I, I'm not tired," she said. "I doan _wanna―"_

Irving guided her into the tent and onto a bunk bed, where she slumped into a sitting position on the mattress and her upper body spun in a slow circle. He stood in front of her, muttering under his breath. She watched him without thought as he put his helmet to the side and looked back at her, shaking his head.

"Since when do you drink?" he muttered.

"I use-used t'drink more," she slurred. "When m'dad died."

"You shouldn't," he replied, and put a hand up to her eye, lifting the eyelid as high as he could. He released it with a sigh. "It won't help, you know. How much _did_ you drink?"

"Pssh," she said, a laugh bubbling up from her stomach. "Not _enough."_

"Lie down, Emily," Irving said, firmly. "Go to sleep."

"I'm not tired," she hiccuped. She looked up at him. Her mouth curved weirdly and she lowered her eyelids, feeling her face flush. "I doan wanna nightmare."

He blinked at her once or twice, the whites of his eyes in his dark face showing. The tent was so dark, she could barely see anything but his eyes locked on hers with a familiar aching look―man, her head was really, really, fuzzy. She did _not_ want to go back to sleep. But she had the feeling that she was gonna crash sooner or later. She felt her heart sink and tears rising.

"W-will you lie down w'me?" she asked, her voice wobbling with tears. "Keep away nightmares."

"I don't think that's a good idea―" he said, alarmed-sounding.

Emily sniffled. "You _owe_ me," she strangled out. "When you, when you tol' me t'leave, at, at t'Cita―"

"Emily..." he groaned.

"You tol' me t'go 'way b'cuz you din't like ghouls," she said, stubbornly. "Hurt m'feelings. Coulda had somethin'. _We_ coulda."

 _"Emily―"_

"An' you acted like, like..." She tried to push her thoughts into coherency. "Like I was _wron'_ for wantin' t'help."

He stared at her for a moment. She swallowed and closed her eyes sleepily. "Are you going to let me speak?" he asked, annoyed.

Emily nodded. "I promise," she whispered. "No talkin'." She put her hand on her chest.

"I didn't tell you that you _had_ to go away. I do enjoy your company, Emily."

She closed her eyes for a moment and then jerked them open. Shit, did she just fall asleep? She blinked rapidly and tried to focus on him. The tent was too dark to see anything―

"You... you left because I asked you to stay with me in the Citadel, and I understand why that wasn't _right,_ at the time," Irving said. "But you didn't really give me any choice. You were always just up and running off, and that time, you didn't―" He sighed. "You never came _back,_ to me."

Emily hiccuped. "What?" She was confused. She wasn't entirely stable anymore, her vision darkening.

"I thought I was going to lose you, Emily," he said, his voice softened. "You weren't coming back anyway―and I was angry. I apologize. You know I don't... don't do well with that sort of behavior."

"Oh," she said. She hiccuped again, painfully, and burst into tears. "Ev'rthin's all wrong," she said, blubbering. "I doan know what _t'do."_

Irving gently pushed her down on the bed, moving beside her. His hands were so warm on her arm, it felt like she was on fire. She rubbed her nose and then hissed in pain.

Wait, he didn't have his gloves on anymore? She could feel his skin on hers, holding her arm. He wasn't wearing his power armor. _What?_ She was confused.

"You need to go to sleep." She stared at the wall of the tent, seeing a discolored patch moving back and forth in her vision. His voice was in her ear now and she didn't remember how she'd gotten where she was.

"Nightmare," she mumbled. _"Can't―"_

"I'll keep the nightmares away," he said. "Try to sleep, Emily."

God, he was so warm. Emily felt his body lying flush against her back. "It's too _hot,"_ she said, fumbling with her jacket. Her fingers didn't want to work―and her eyes wouldn't open themselves.

The hot feeling lessened after a moment. Emily breathed a little easier. "'Anks," she mumbled. Irving's hand was across her chest, pulling the tight leather away from her sweating skin.

"Go to sleep," he said, again.

"Okay," she answered. "Okay."


	9. In Which Emily is Loved

He... He was surprised. To see her in Gambrill. He had thanked his good luck every time she came back to the Citadel, just to see him. And now...

She was sleeping off whatever it was she'd drank and he was holding her, a bruise spread across her face from a broken nose. A broken nose she'd gotten from being pushed into the ground, assaulted by slavers, nearly raped.

No wonder she was having nightmares. Irving sighed to himself, and tried to enjoy the feeling of having her in his arms. Once she was sober, she wouldn't let him do it again. He hated that she had to come to him drunk, crying and scared. Everything that had led up to this was exactly the kind of trouble he wanted to protect her from.

Her behavior was trouble, too. The emotional outburst she'd just had was the same as it had been that night he'd tried to talk her into...

Into staying with him, in the Citadel.

He wanted her to stop this... _nonsense_ in the wastes, and to let him deal with the danger. She still didn't understand how strongly he felt about her and she probably wouldn't remember what he'd just told her, about him losing his temper back then. About feeling betrayed that she would rather spend time with that ghoul than him―

She would not be offering herself up body and soul, to help the Brotherhood with the slavers in Annapolis, if not for that damn ghoul. Irving didn't like him. Didn't really like anyone, except for Emily. Emily had a bleeding heart, wanted to help everyone. She was so kind under all that aggressiveness she used to mask her fear, her fear of the world and all the terrible things in it.

But she also acted suggestively... not at all like a nice girl ought to act.

Her asking him to lie in the bed with her, trying to take her jacket off. Like that wasn't confusing? Like it wasn't an invitation to something else? She'd come on to him before, like that, and it had been just as confusing. And just as maddening; he could feel the physical effect of their closeness. Thank God she was passed out. He embarrassed himself.

He still didn't know what to make of her. She was giving him mixed signals. Part of her acted like she wanted the ghoul... Clinging to him like she had when John spoke the code word, crying like she had. Whether she wanted to wander the wastes with the ghoul, or wanted other things―things that Irving didn't like to think about―he couldn't tell.

Part of her was acting like she wanted Irving, too. Like she was willing to pick up where they had left off.

And Irving, he wanted Emily, so badly he was willing to let himself get hurt over and over again. Just for a little more time with her.

She moved in her sleep, causing her hair to fall over her face. He remembered walking around the D.C. ruins with her in the moonlight, remembered how she looked under the pale glow, her hair bouncing around her head. Her dark eyes in her face looking at him with admiration for his ability. Her smile... all for him, and no one else. His chest hurt like hell.

Irving knew that as long as she and he were alive, he would feel that way about her. It wasn't like he could ignore it; he'd thought... he'd thought she was the one, back then, and now that she was back with him he only felt that even more. She _needed_ him―if she could just realize that he would do anything to have her around him, all the time. To be _more_ than just shooting Super Mutants, again.

She'd already broken his heart once. He was sure she would break it, again. He didn't care. He'd missed her, he really had. She made him feel―so normal. He hadn't felt this content since the last time she'd been around, before the offensive on the Enclave... There had been so much excitement when they took on the Enclave crawler, and he'd wanted to ask her to stick around after the battle. To talk to her again. But she'd vanished back into the wastes and he was left alone.

Right now, she made him forget that he had ever been lonely. Made him feel like he didn't have to scout a slaver organization and risk dying in order to do his part in restoring peace to the eastern seaboard. He felt like _he_ was drunk just being around her.

Irving ran a hand along her head and pulled her messy brown hair out of her eyes, letting his shaking hand rest on her temple. She'd... she'd kissed him under the bridge. Twice. Told him she would break him. That she wasn't a nice person.

He believed her. She would break him. But, for those kisses... He'd _let_ her.

He wished he could kiss her right now, but it wouldn't be right. She was drunk and he wasn't going to take advantage of her. It wasn't right to be holding her like he was, either, but he wasn't going to leave her alone, either. She'd insisted, and the sound of her scared voice talking about nightmares only made him want to keep her safe all the more.

Why couldn't it be perfect?

Irving stared up at the ceiling and wondered if he was losing his mind. How he could let such emotion take hold of him, define him. Before Emily... he hadn't been Irving. He'd been Knight Captain Gallows of the Lyon's Pride, with a kill count at least three times as high as the other members, a cold machine of a man who felt nothing but the urge to kill.

After Emily let him kiss her, he was nothing more than a shell of a man who needed her to fill his heart.

It would _never_ be perfect.

But Irving didn't really care as long as Emily was around.

"Good night, Emily," he whispered. "Sleep tight."

* * *

In the morning, John Turtle brought Charon to the tent and explained there had been some confusion about the ghoul. The people running the hotel hadn't known how to get him out of the room; John had to intervene. Emily spent the entire night―and most of the next day―sleeping in Irving's bunk, passed out and probably dehydrated from drinking so much. Irving had been making sure she drank some water every few minutes for the last hour, trying to rouse her.

He didn't really have time to be playing nursemaid to her. There were things to do, a temporary slaver camp to keep an eye on. John and his crew were dealing with the slavers who left the camp, but hadn't yet attempted to fight any of the ones inside the camp. The number of the enemy was dwindling as they thinned the herd.

Disturbing news that morning, the slaver camp was on the move. Knox and Payne had eyes on it in the night, said they were packing up after learning that Jerome Walker was dead. John offered his apologies that he'd had to kill the slaver leader, but Irving wouldn't hear of it. John had saved Emily from a fate worse than death. Saved her where that damn _ghoul_ hadn't been able to―

"Do you want us to take the camp out?" John was asking him. Irving eyeballed the ghoul. His mind was on other things than the slavers, which was probably a bad thing. "We could enact that plan you were talking about, possibly infiltrating Annapolis."

Irving turned his head to face the man. "Did you have someone in mind, who could pull it off?" he asked.

"Knox probably could, as long as orders were very specific," John said. "I'm hesitant to engage my son in such risky behavior, but it would be a waste of opportunity not to try."

Irving still didn't know what to make of John Turtle owning the contract of his son; he'd been stolen as a child and sold into slavery. John knew the code words for activating contracts because of this unfortunate event. He would do everything in his power to prevent more children being kidnapped for the conditioning.

Irving stared at the ghoul again. There wasn't much he could do, himself. He had to be here, keeping an eye on the slavers. Killing them when the opportunity showed itself, otherwise just watching. There were other temporary camps set up around the outlying area of Annapolis, but... Gambrill was the safest possible place for a command center to be set up. Because of John and his people.

"I'd rather we had someone who has free will," Irving answered, reluctantly.

"I could go myself," John said, shrugging. "Or you could send Emily. She seemed enthusiastic enough. I heard she's got quite the reputation in the Capital, too."

"Absolutely not!" Irving said, before he could stop himself. He breathed out, slowly. "Not the right kind of job for a female," he added, lamely.

John considered him for a moment. "Her guardian doesn't sleep, you know. Probably a side effect of becoming a ghoul. She'd be in safe hands."

Irving growled to himself under his breath. "Like she was safe up on the highway? When she was taken by slavers?"

"That won't happen again. Her guardian was distracted, then." John raised an eyebrow and looked over at the ghoul. "I think you understand just as well as he did, _why._ Emily is... certainly attractive."

Irving breathed out calmly, trying to focus himself. It was pretty obvious how... how much he loved her, but he'd hoped that others would mind their own business―

But goddamn that ghoul _bastard,_ falling in love with Emily! His fists clenched. It made the way she'd been acting, after the contract was reinforced, all the more disturbing for him. She―dammit, she'd _reciprocated!_ She had actually started something with the―he wanted to call the ghoul so many nasty things, the words were jumbled in his head.

He felt so much worse for Emily. She ought to have stayed with him. She would not be engaging in deviant behavior with this mountain of rotten flesh if she had. And... it explained even further why she wanted to help get him free again.

Irving felt guilty in that he did not wish for the ghoul to be free of the contract. _Ever._

"I'm not sending Emily into Annapolis, not when she just drank too much and passed out on the street," he said, lying just a little. If she remembered where she passed out, that was one thing, but no one needed to know she'd spent the night platonically wrapped in his arms. Not if he could avoid it. "She's not dealing well with the stress that you caused her. Beyond that, she's very noticeable. Especially with the ghoul following her―"

"Being noticeable is something to be desired, amongst slavers. If one stands out, one is either very good at one's job, or has notoriety for... _other_ reasons." John cracked a grin. "With the ghoul following her, I imagine she might attract some interesting attention."

"I do not find this at all funny," Irving said, as seriously as he could manage.

"Well. Dragonstongue is going to deal with the remainder," John said. "Think you ought to reconsider your view. Might be trouble to have her around, anyway." He grunted and left.

Left Irving thinking about all the things that could go wrong with Emily infiltrating a slaver organization with that bastard ghoul―


	10. In Which Emily Gets a New Weapon

Note: Sorry about the delay. This last week has been very busy for me. We might have a kidney donor.

Also I think Irving might have broken my feels in the last chapter. Now I know how Emily feels

* * *

Emily was not entirely awake when Irving asked her to remove her ghoul from the tent, so that he might have a serious conversation with her. She was confused at first, he could tell she didn't fully understand why―but he pressed the issue calmly and firmly, and eventually she took the hint.

"Look, Emily..." he started, as she pressed her hands into her eyeballs and groaned in pain. "We have an opportunity that might not come up again."

"Are you talking about us or the slavers?" she grumbled.

He paused and ran a hand over his chest, willing his heart to not explode in agony. "Slavers, Emily. We will discuss the... _other_ issue later, I'm sure. You can explain to me why you thought it was a good idea to come looking for me, drunk as all get out, and pass out on my bed."

She stilled her hands and then sighed. "I'm sorry, Irving," she said, her voice truly rueful.

"Annapolis has several temporary slaver camps surrounding it," Irving said, pressing on. "John Turtle and I think it would be a good idea to get some eyes on inside one of them, to mark out the opposition and get more information."

Emily sat up slowly. "And work one's way up into the power structure?" she asked, rubbing her stomach with a grimace.

He nodded. "Clearly, if they've been operating for so long, they have a competent leader. If we can take out that person..." _We will kill them all, like the bastards that they are._

"Is it a real assassination or do you just need me to worm my way in and work from there?" she asked. She glanced up at him with bloodshot eyes and blinked against the light.

Irving paused and tightened his hands into fists. "I... I trust your judgement, Emily." He pressed his mouth together behind his helmet and didn't tell her what he wanted to, that he did not want her to go.

He didn't. He wanted her to return to the Capital Wasteland and wait for him in the Citadel and be _safe._ But she wouldn't. He wanted to tell her what he really thought, but that was too complicated right now.

"If you have the opportunity, you are free to do as you please," he said, instead. "But the longer the spying goes on, the more information we can gather about how the slavers work. The more we know, the easier it will be to destroy them."

She nodded, vaguely. "Alright. Where is John?"

Irving told her about the slaver camp moving, how Dragonstongue was out burning the survivors that were fleeing. "John... has a _personal_ investment in killing slavers. He's not particularly known for his mercy."

"I'll say," she muttered, shooting a glance at the doorway where Charon's back was to the two of them.

Irving paused for a moment, and removed his helmet so he could talk to her face to face. "Emily..."

"Hmm?" she pushed herself off the bunk and zipped up her leather armor, undone from the night before. Irving's face flushed with blood in memory of her hands under his, fumbling with the zipper. He was close to embarrassing himself again, thinking about how near he'd been to her.

"About last night."

She looked up sharply. "I assume that, since I woke up with my clothes on, you are a gentleman," she said, harshly. "Thank you for that."

His heart landed somewhere around his knees. How could she assume that of him? "Emily, I wouldn't dare force anything on you, that you didn't want."

"What, so that talk we had outside the Citadel doesn't count anymore?" She scoffed. "You telling me I had to leave Charon to his fate in the wastes?"

"It counts," he said, slowly. "But I―" He sighed and dropped his helmet onto the bed, turning to her. His hands went to her shoulders and held her facing him. "Emily, I can't―I can't do this anymore."

She coughed a moment, then cleared her throat and looked up at him. Her face was screwed up in confusion and anger. "Do _what,_ Irving? Strikes me that you want something I don't have to _give."_

He felt the icy pain of the words going through him, but pushed ahead past it. "I _love_ you, Emily," he said. It hurt him to publicly announce his need of her, but he had to give voice to it; had to tell her officially that he loved her. She hadn't heard it said, yet.

She stared at him for a moment, then looked away. "Irving..."

"I know I shouldn't believe anything you said, last night," he continued, blithely. "I know that it would be entirely too dangerous to engage in a relationship. With this operation... and with your own freedom to do as you please..." He paused for a moment. "But I _hurt,_ Emily."

She breathed out in a puff and wouldn't meet his eyes. "I don't―" she started. _"Ugh."_ She pinched her nose again, sighing out in pain. "Okay, I do know. I _do,_ but I don't want to play you, and I've been playing you―"

"I don't care."

She glanced up at him, quickly. "What?"

He stared her down. "I don't care, Emily. If you've been―playing me. Or not, or if you could give two shits about me."

Emily stared at him, her mouth bobbing up and down. _"W-what?"_ she asked, her voice strangled.

 _Do it, man. Just―do it._

"I love you even if you don't want or love me back," he said, pulling his hands away from her shoulders and putting them behind his back. "And I will do _anything_ you want, just to have you near, Emily. Even if you are... trying to use me to get your ghoul back."

"Irving―" Her voice was tangled with emotion. She swallowed hard and blinked back tears. It hurt him to see her crying, too, but at least he knew she felt something. Something was better than nothing, in his mind. It meant there was a slim chance―a way to get her to understand, even if it took him years to get into her heart. "Just let me _go,_ Irving," she said, pleadingly. "Please."

"Can't," he said, his voice growing distant. He closed his eyes and breathed out evenly. In his head he could see Emily sitting with him at the table in the Den, eating crisps and shooting him a sidelong glance when he went to put on his helmet. He could see her in the dark nights of the D.C. ruins, smiling up at him, walking in front of him, looking worn and needing his help to get past her grievances. He... he could see her with her back to him, under the bridge, leaning up and brushing those soft lips against his own, and joking about his armor―

He swallowed hard, and willed his face to remain neutral as he opened his eyes.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, covering her eyes with both hands. "Oh, my _God,_ Irving, I can't―I _can't―"_ She started to sob into her hands. "I―I'm in love with Charon," she sobbed out. "I can't―I _can't_ love _you―"_

"I know." Irving held his breath for a moment, chest throbbing with pain and his head heavy. "Emily," he said, softly. He reached behind him and pulled his laser rifle from his back, and handed it too her.

She cried for a moment longer, then looked out over her hands. "Wha..." She sniffled and wiped her face. He hated every moment of this. Hated that he'd made her cry. Hated that she was so distressed, that she'd thought playing him was the only way to get what she wanted. Hated that she wanted for the ghoul―

And not for _him._ He would give her the moon and stars if he could only pull the sky close enough to grab them down.

"Take it," he told her, calmly. "I told you I'd get you a weapon. Take this one."

Emily looked up at him and kept her hands at her sides. "I can't take your rifle," she said. _"You_ need it."

"I can get another weapon," he said, pushing the rifle at her. "Take it, Emily. I trust this rifle more than I trust anything else in the world―" He pressed his mouth together for a split second in displeasure, knowing she would destroy the rifle even if he was around to watch over her. "―Anything else, except for _you._ Take it."

Emily reached out and grabbed the rifle with one hand, her eyes hooded, face drawn. "I don't like to hurt you, Irving," she whispered. "I..."

"I know," he said, and put a hand on her shoulder. "You love _everyone,_ Emily."

"Yeah, _but―"_ she sputtered. "I― _you_ ―I can't!"

Her voice was hurting him, hearing the confusion. "Doesn't matter," he said, as stubbornly as he could. "If you are going to go to Annapolis, I want you to be safe. My rifle will work ten times better than some random weapon I might find for you. I want you to come back, Emily. _Come back safe."_

She sputtered again, then threw the rifle to the side and onto the bed. Before he could react, she had her arms around his neck, throwing herself onto him, crying and choking out words into his ear.

He couldn't hear what she was saying. It sounded gibberish, slurred like a drunk's words, but her arms tightening around his neck was all that he needed to know that he could hug her back. He just wished he didn't have his power armor on. He grimaced to himself as he felt her hands grabbing at the back of his neck, squeaking across the rubber seal of his chest armor.

Irving wrapped his arms around her back and held her gently, squeezing as much as he dared, while she sobbed into his ear. "Thank you, Irving," she was babbling. "Thank you, _so, so much."_

"You will come back to me, right?" he asked her, carefully.

"I'll make it home alive," she murmured. "I always _do."_

God, he hoped he could believe that.

Annapolis had ground mighty men into dust, long before his and her time.


	11. In Which Irving is On Her Mind

Note: I apologize for the long delay. We lost two great-grandmothers in as many days.

* * *

The sun was rising over an irradiated crater, a faint haze of fumes rising from the interior. Emily stared out through the haze at the group of people milling around in the slaver camp below her, her hands held loose around her binoculars.

The dramatic change enacted by the nuclear bombs, of the shoreline in Maryland, was impressive. From the spot she was crouching on, she could see miles. Miles and miles of divots and craters, pools of irradiated water settling in them, dotting the landscape like freckles on the face of the earth. The air was palpable with humidity, clouds gathered in bunches, never showing a single bit of sunlight. Blackness on the undersides of the clouds reminded her that it was not a good idea to be caught outside in the rain when the water table was full of mildly irradiated water.

She lowered the binoculars and patted her shorts pocket, pulling out a bottle of whiskey. After a couple of drinks, she slid it back into the rough fabric and surveyed the slaver camp again.

There were about five buildings, all Pre-War structures with major damage from the bombs. Looked like a small shopping complex, with signs up and a pile of debris lying around the outside edges. "Buy Wash-O!" met her eyes as she swept the binoculars up over the wall and into the interior, where a couple of people were milling about. She could see one man lighting a cigarette, watched his hands rise to his face and see the glow of the ash.

Man, she wished she hadn't exploded the Reservist's rifle. She could _totally_ hit that bastard right between the eyes.

Charon was grumbling behind her. He hadn't approved of her wardrobe change―from her leather armor into a badlands outfit, which left a lot more scarred skin exposed than even she enjoyed―but Emily knew her talents. She was prepared to flash a little skin at people, to give them a show, if she had to. So long as no one tried to get at her without her permission. She still had bad dreams about the highway.

Emily shuddered to herself. At least... with Charon under the contract again, she really didn't have to _worry_ ―a scream or two would bring him down like a bag of hammers on whoever might try to hurt her. He'd not said anything about Irving's behavior, though. She wondered what had changed to make him stop viewing the Brotherhood soldier as a threat.

She didn't want to go down to the slave camp unless she was going to kill them all. But... for Charon, and for a chance to get into Annapolis and take out the leader of the slavers, for a chance to try to find the words to unlock Charon from his contract―

"Guess we should go say hi," she said, reluctantly, pushing Irving's rifle back up on her shoulder. Still wished he hadn't given it to her. She'd broken down when he insisted, because she'd known he cared but she hadn't realized how _much._ It broke her heart to hurt him like that, when she'd thought he'd given up. When she thought she didn't care, either... but she _did,_ and that made it worse―

Emily put her hand down to the dirt near her feet and drew a circle with her finger, pursing her lips. She stared at her hand as it moved and remembered Irving hugging her in the tent, remembered his words. Irving _loved_ her. He couldn't and wouldn't let go of her, no matter what. Unconditional love was something she'd been lacking for a long time, since she left the Vault three years before. It was nice, she thought, to have someone out there who wished for your very best regardless of how horrible you acted or how bad you did them. Nice and awful, at the same time.

But... _Charon._

She glanced back at the ghoul and her chest tightened painfully. She loved Charon because... because why? Other than the sex, _why?_ Couldn't remember now. They'd gotten along decently when they weren't arguing or being pushed around by their situation, the Enclave assaults and the purifier―

She'd broken his contract, and he'd... he'd assaulted her, in a drunken state. She hadn't wanted _that_ at the time―she thought she wouldn't ever be able to forgive him, but then he acted so _broken_ afterward. So helpless. Emily was broken _too,_ and helpless to the ravages of the wastes. She'd been so ill-prepared for what waited when she'd left the Vault.

They'd belonged together because they were _both_ broken―

But he wasn't broken, not anymore. She'd learned that. In the time between the Enclave assault and their getting lost, Charon had proved himself more than adequately able to carry on in the wastes without her. And he'd threatened to leave her twice, because she was acting so ridiculously stupid―and attached and... _young._ So helpless still. So _needy._

Like the child he'd said she was. Emily pinched her nose again, feeling the bones shifting under her fingers. She couldn't feel the pain, anymore. She was far too drunk to feel it.

He'd put his cheek on hers and she'd felt how warm he was, and he'd sounded concerned for her. Then he'd turned around and pushed away with a snarky comment, making her mad. He'd told her she only wanted him for sex. Why did he do that? It was so conflicting... It made no sense to her, unless he was feeling _―something,_ for her.

She stood up and stowed away her binoculars, patting her pocket to make sure her whiskey was still there. "Let's go," she said, and started around the edge of the crater. She pulled a wastehound helmet on as she slid down the hill, with Charon following.

* * *

She didn't have a real plan. She'd just figured on walking into the camp and finding out who was in charge, and winging it from there. She'd never been one for planning like Irving did, long-term and hardcore. She was soft, she bounced around like a foam ball, she could take a hit. She was gonna have to, probably, just to get in the camp.

Emily strolled into the slaver camp, hands and feet loose, bouncing to some imaginary music in her head. She went straight to the nearest building and pulled the door open with a jerk, then paused.

She paused because the room was empty. She hadn't noticed the leader of the slavers leaving the building, when she was watching earlier. Emily scoffed and went to shut the door, but a hand on her shoulder brought her attention to the left.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing―" the man said, sounding both amused and angry.

Charon's hand removed the man's hand from her shoulder and Emily could hear the finger bones cracking as he pushed the limb backwards. It was bending in an unnatural way, accentuated by the man's terrible yell of pain.

"Let go," Emily said, roughly.

Charon dropped the man, and kept his shotgun at his side, eyes scanning the rest of the camp. Emily noticed it too, the eyes on them now, the slavers poking their heads out of doors and over walls to size up what seemed like a threat. Weapons from all over the camp were aimed on them. Emily sighed to herself.

 _"Where the fuck is the boss?!"_ she yelled out, putting her hands on her hips.

Silence ruled over the camp for a moment before a single noise echoed, a swish that sounded near to her feet. Emily turned to see a knife had been thrown into the dirt by her boots, and looked up behind her to see a head hanging over the edge of the Wash-O sign. She shielded her eyes and stared up at the man, screwing up her face.

"I ain't real _patient,"_ she called. "You the boss?"

A barely perceptible nod of the man's head. Emily picked the knife out of the ground and held it, then looked up again. The head was gone. After a moment, the door to the building opened and the boss stepped out.

She sized him up for a moment. Spikes and leather and battle scars. A swath of hair laid over the side of his head, shaved everywhere else; dark eyes on her face and a mouth curled up into an appraising look. She stood solid against his eyes as they traveled over her.

"The camp up by Gambrill was wiped out," she said, testily. "Wasn't much left."

The boss looked her up and down, then turned his head to Charon, and turned slowly back to her. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked, his voice low and tone guarded.

"I was working with Jerome," she said. "Name's E. This is Charon," she jabbed a thumb into the ghoul's chest. "Jerome got his ass burned by Turtle. I got the fuck _out."_

The man whose hand Charon had grabbed had gotten up off of the ground, rubbing his wrist and raising an eyebrow at her. The boss turned his head to him, then back on her. "Fuck you want?" he asked, calmly.

The defining moment, if he believed her cover story or not, was if he would let her in. She couldn't judge anything by the tone of voice he had, but plunged ahead. "I want a damn _job,"_ she said, her voice rising with her temper. "I signed on for caps, not this _bullshit militia_ burning people up!"

There was a panicked moment where she didn't know what he was going to say―but then he smiled in an odd way and nodded. "Jerome give you the password?"

"Charon, give this asshole the fucking password." Emily motioned with two fingers at the ghoul.

Charon's shotgun was immediately in the face of the man, along with the growling that he was so damn good at. He took two steps forward and jabbed the man with a sharp thrust, pushing him backward.

"Christ, calm down," the man said. "Ain't my fault, I _got_ to ask. Ain't no one can vet for you."

Emily put her hands on her hips, scowling. "I vet for _myself._ Jerome saw to that. And I don't _fuck around."_ She reached into her pack and grabbed out the only recognizable part of Jerome that was left once John Turtle finished with him. She tossed the forearm and hand over to the boss and grunted. "There, is _that_ a good enough password?"

The arm still had some burn damage to it, and a few tattoos that Emily was banking on being recognized. "Huh." The boss scratched his head and glanced up at Charon. "Jerome did bite it. Fuckin' _hell."_ He tossed the arm to the side and looked over at Emily. "Call off your dog, woman."

"Back off, Charon," she said, her voice hard. "Now, you gonna hire me? I got some good slaves for Jerome, but they were set free by that fucking asshole Turtle. I'll get 'em back." She tried her best to look full of herself. "I _always_ do."

The boss looked between the two of them and raised his eyebrows, then blew out a breath. "Fuck, you wanna bring in some slaves, knock yourself out. Bring em up and we'll deal."

Emily nodded to herself. "Alright. I'll see you _assholes_ in a few days. C'mon, Charon." She turned to leave, stamping her feet hard against the ground.

* * *

Emily didn't breathe a sigh of relief until they were far enough away she wouldn't be caught out, until her lungs were about to burst and stars were running across her eyes. "Oh, my _God,"_ she groaned, and sucked in lungfuls of air. She stared up at Charon. "We have to become the enemy," she said, lamely.

He didn't reply, but stared back at her. God _dammit,_ she missed him losing his temper with her―Emily sucked up snot into her head and finished off the bottle of whiskey, throwing it out into the wastes. She heard the glass thump off a tree trunk.

"Let's go get some slaves, then," she said, pulling Irving's rifle off her back.

As you command," Charon said.

She wanted to cry. But she couldn't.


	12. In Which Charon Rolls On Columbia

Note: I should mention that the Columbia in this chapter is a reference to the personification of America prior to 1920 (after which the Lady Liberty took precedence). It's also another reference, but you should figure that one out in the next chapter.

* * *

Emily and Charon returned to the slaver camp within two days. She was very, _very_ fucked off that she'd had to prove herself right off the bat. At least―she didn't like _anyone_ taking slaves, _never would,_ wanted to _kill_ the slavers, but she _needed_ to play along―at least she meant to free all the people who might be taken into slavery through her efforts.

Kept telling herself that, but she kept getting more and more drunk, too. Charon had to carry her ass to a cardboard bed at least once when she'd passed out on the road, looking for people to take away. They'd found a whole family, two children and two adults, and made them march back to the temporary camp out but the irradiated craters.

She was sick to her stomach the whole time but she remembered why she did what she had to do. It meant the world to her, to these people she was taking, to Charon and to Irving and to John Turtle―

After she brought back the family, she earned a little respect. Boss was impressed and intimidated, and Emily wanted it that way. Boss was allowed her to help bring the entire "inventory" back to Annapolis. Her acquisition was enough to fill the cages. She drove the slaves with five other slavers into the city.

The outside of Annapolis was set up as a massive plantation. Every hundred feet she saw another group of slaves being watched over, tending the rows of scraggly crops and working the fields in the distance. She remembered her American History class and realized that this―this was identical to how it had been, before―

Before Abraham Lincoln, and Emily was glad that she was wearing her wastehound helmet, because she cried silent tears as they passed by the slaves in the fields. She said an internal apology to Hannibal Hamlin and his people, and promised to do better by him.

Inside Annapolis limits, the slavers proceeded along the ocean's edge. The shoreline never seemed to end. It was littered with derelict ships, rotting piers and torn sails flapping in a gentle wind. She couldn't even see anything past all of the water. It terminated in the distance with rocking waves and gray sky. There was nothing else out there. She should have _never_ come this way... seeing the vastness of the rolling waves made her feel small.

Emily drank more whiskey and wiped her mouth of the mess she made. Charon grumbled behind her, his fingers on his shotgun twitching with annoyance. She wiped her eyes through the cloth of her helmet, too, while she was cleaning her face. She shouldn't cry in front of these assholes. They didn't deserve tears, they deserved beatings and _bullets._

Annapolis had a lot of brick streets, broken and crumbling and blown apart, and brick buildings that were similar to the ones in the D.C. ruins. That made her think of Irving, a better thing to think about than this maddening slaver city. She thought about shooting super mutants with him from the top of busted buildings and crawling through skinny passageways, trying to get to places they'd never been before. Of seeing the moon lighting up the courtyards and hearing the slow shuffle of heavy feet along the streets, and the loud fizzing of his laser rifle as he destroyed the monsters, and helped her figure herself out.

Irving wanted these people to be gone. It was his job. But she _owed_ him for helping her through such a bad time in her life, after the purifier. She wouldn't have come back from the edge if she hadn't had his hand to show her how to shoot better, or his attempts to―to keep her busy so she didn't wander off and die. And he'd fallen so hard for her, and she felt so guilty.

Emily groaned inside her head as she walked through the city, trying to keep her eyes open to everything that was going on. She couldn't afford to get distracted. She would get killed.

Annapolis had a few buildings that were standing, and in good condition. Had an enormous open market with vendors vying for her attention, yelling out that they had the best and most intact wares of all the world. People milling about, looking at everything, but every last one was a slave or slave-owner. The whole town was one or the other, enslaved people and their owners. It was awful. She promised herself she would _destroy_ it.

Emily followed the other slavers across the brick-lined market and through the fenced yard of a large building―the faded grandeur of the place lent her to believe it was the town hall of some sort, where the Pre-War government had operated from. The slaves were taken to an open pen around the side of the building while Emily and another slaver went inside.

"Who's the head honcho around here?" Emily asked, looking around at the interior of the building. The top of the cupola had been blasted right off, but someone had at one point climbed up there and riveted corrugated metal to the remaining roof. Little beams of sunlight striking through the metal sheets illuminated a filthy floor littered with papers, cracking linoleum, tin cans and various other debris. She glanced around the large open room and noted it looked very similar to the museums she'd been through, and the Capitol Building back in D.C.

Boss' second in command, Smith, looked incredulously at her through a pair of goggles and Emily knew she'd said something wrong. "Jerome didn't tell you? _Fuck,_ girl," the woman said, shaking her messy hair out. They were waiting for someone to show up, Smith said. Big Money would pay them.

"Didn't have a whole lot of _time_ for that―" Emily snorted and rolled her eyes, lying through her teeth. She managed to push back her compunctions and put on a disgusted air. "You don't talk to someone who's sucking your _dick,_ woman."

Smith guffawed and smacked her on the shoulder, then pointed up at the second floor. "I've never met the asshole myself, but he pays too well to complain." She patted her pockets and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and staring up at the open area to the second floor. "Calls himself Luther," she added, spitting out dirt from the end of the cigarette. "He's a ghoul, I hear. Like your... _whatever_ the fuck that walking shitheap is."

Emily stung at that, but ignored it. She'd been ignoring it for the whole of their relationship, couldn't stop now. "Some fucking ghoul runs the slavers? How the fuck does _that_ work?"

Smith chortled and flicked her ashes at Emily's face. "We don't get paid to ask questions, bitch! Gonna get yourself _killed."_

"Call me political," Emily snapped back. "Maybe I'll fuck my way to the top like Jerome tried to. 'Cept _my_ pussy's nicer."

Smith gasped and laughed at the same time, and spent the next few minutes hacking up smoke and mucus. Emily ignored her and studied the roof of the building, eyeballing the stairs that led to the second floor and the security that was present. Wasn't much more than a few men with assault rifles and one with a plasma rifle, near the only door she could see from their spot in the foyer. Might be more in the yard, she'd have to look around.

"That's _stupid shit,"_ Smith finally croaked out, after slapping her chest a few times. Emily noted that Smith's mucus was tinged with blood where she had spat onto the floor, and stepped away from the blob with a grimace.

"It ain't _stupid_ to plan ahead," Emily said, her eyes trailing up to the door again.

"If you think you have a fucking chance of wowing them assholes, you better have some _million cap_ pussy," the slaver woman retorted. "I never heard such _shit,_ that's so _fucking_ ballsy! _Stupid_ fucking _bitch!"_

 _"Fuck you!"_ Emily said, and growled at the woman. She lost her temper, finally, and let herself be more vulgar than she intended. "All you _fuckheads_ are so narrow minded, no wonder you're licking the boot of some _goddamn_ _zombie!"_

Smith threw her cigarette down with one hand and slapped Emily with the other, snarling in anger. Emily grinned and brought her fists into the fight. Charon didn't intervene―maybe he was pissed about the zombie comment―

Emily laughed and laughed through a semi-drunken haze, realizing that he didn't qualify the slaver woman as a threat. Probably because Emily could take her down without much issue. He wouldn't let her get her ass beat while under contract unless she stood a fair chance of winning.

And she _did_ win. Smith's face was busted on the lip and blood streamed from her nose, before Emily let off of her. "You wanna try that one, _again?"_ she asked the woman, staring down at her as she bled onto the floor where she'd collapsed.

Smith shrieked and lashed out with a leg, tying to knock Emily down. Emily stepped backward quickly, and applied her booted foot to the woman's face, hard. She didn't have to play up her aggression toward the slavers―so she let it out. Smith's temple slammed down onto the floor and blood splattered everywhere. The woman jerked in pain and yelped and Emily removed her boot, nodding in satisfaction.

Couldn't _kill_ her. Didn't _need_ to, now. Woman knew better than to mess with Emily. Emily pulled out her whiskey and pushed up her helmet, downing the half a bottle she had left, pouring out a small bit onto Smith's face to humiliate her. "That's what I _thought,"_ she spat. "Boot-lickers, _all_ of you."

Charon's angry growling behind her brought her attention round to see a short thin man approaching them. "You the seller from Cattal's camp?" he asked, his voice clipped.

"Yeah," Emily said. "Me and this puddle of _shit_ here," she added, toeing the other woman in the side as she tried to peel herself off of the floor.

The man cleared his throat and gestured to a room off the side. Smith and Emily followed, the woman keeping herself as far away from Emily as she could. Emily grinned.

The business was concluded fairly quickly, but Emily was motioned to speak with a security officer as they were leaving. At first she was worried she'd be hauled off―and have to risk escaping under heavy fire, because Charon would sure as hell open fire on anyone trying to imprison or kill her―but the man explained she was being asked to speak with that Luther guy Smith had mentioned. Emily shrugged and gestured for Charon to follow and made her way up.

* * *

He _was_ a ghoul. Gave her a weird feeling, though. Emily had met more than a few ghouls in her time, and had managed to get rid of most her fear of them. Ferals still made her chest tighten and breath come faster, but she was working on it.

She was introduced without any show, just a "hello how are you" sort of thing. Luther was a pretty standard-looking ghoul, missing all the appropriate parts and speaking in the gravelly sounding voice they had. He looked her over, then Charon, then turned back to her and asked her to remove her helmet. She did, and stared him down without fear. The whiskey emboldened her to push away the fear and bring out her inner bitch.

"So tell me about this one," Luther said, sitting behind a desk and fiddling with a pencil. "What's his story. How you came about finding him."

"Not much to tell." Emily shrugged. "Picked him up in D.C."

"From a scab named Ahzrukhal?" he asked, steepling his fingers together over the desk.

"If you already _know―"_ Emily rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips.

"Curious," he rasped. "I doubted he would be back this way." Luther turned his filmy eyes on Emily and turned up one corner of his cheek. "Peter and I go back a long way."

"Name's Charon, now," Emily said, pulling her pack to the side and looking for a drink. She was getting a weird vibe from the guy; wanted to make sure she could keep her confidence up.

"How... appropriate." Luther smiled with his full mouth. "Now, I saw that display down in the lobby. Your guardian didn't bother to intervene. Do you know why?"

Emily shrugged, and pulled out a bottle of booze. "Smith ain't a threat."

Luther chuckled. "No, I guess not." His mouth split into a grin now. Emily screwed up her face, that weird vibe getting worse. "Have you enjoyed the services of your secondhand guardian?"

"Keeps my ass safe," she said, slowly. "What are you _getting_ at?"

"Nothing much, nothing much. It's just..." He leaned forward onto his elbows on the desk, and tilted his head. "...I know exactly who you _are,_ Wanderer. And whatever _plan_ you might have for destroying my livelihood―" The grin widened even more, if that was even possible. Emily felt all her blood drain and her hand, closed around a bottle of scotch, began to tremble. "Well, it _won't_ get very far. I am not _stupid,_ Wanderer."

She didn't know to say―her mouth opened and closed and she pressed her lips together, and swallowed. She stared at him, for a moment, before opening her mouth again, but he interrupted her, looking at Charon.

"Roll on Columbia."


	13. In Which Emily is Strangled

_A memory ~_

Connie Alexander was somewhat happy. Peter liked to see her happy; she was less inclined to become violent with him or with anyone else, when she was happy.

But Luther was not happy. Luther lost his temper with Connie Alexander repeatedly. It was a bad situation, and eventually Connie Alexander showed her own displeasure with Luther. She was no longer willing to let him be so aggressive toward herself. She had a plan, but Peter could not anticipate the danger that was to come of it.

They reported back to Annapolis, showing the results of their attempts to re-power the area. Successfully reactivating the power substations had brought Annapolis back to a modicum of its former glory. Luther wormed his way into the governing body and was poised to take control, and he was far too busy to pay much attention to his woman.

Luther left Connie Alexander in the little hotel room they had rented and Peter guarded her, as he always had. They spent several weeks there, cloistered together away from the world. She seemed... happier, without Luther.

Peter felt himself relax. He was not off-guard, just in a safe place and able to rest his aching bones. He was not young, anymore, and he felt it. He had warned Connie Alexander of his age. She did not seem to mind.

Connie Alexander had offered him a drink, and he had accepted. "You can get drunk for me, now," she joked, and tapped a bottle of water against the bottle of whiskey she had given him. He obeyed, but he knew it would be a bad idea. And it was.

Connie Alexander began to tell him of a plan she had, to leave Luther―he approved of that, and told her so. She was tired of being abused, tired of his violence. Worried about the baby, and how Luther might treat it. She told him he should not consider Luther an employer any longer. He obeyed. Connie Alexander had bought his contract first. Her words were of higher priority.

That night, she looked at him with eyes that were shining, her face lit up with emotion. Peter could do nothing more than watch her with his own glassy eyes, and somehow―somehow they ended up together. It was Connie Alexander who had initiated sex. It was pleasant, though Peter felt no desire for her. Connie Alexander enjoyed herself with him. She swore she would free him of the contract, then, as she fell asleep in his arms. He could not respond to it. The contract would not allow for him to express sentiment.

He fell asleep. He was too old to be a proper guardian. He would have to remind her again, in the morning.

Peter woke with a snap of his eyes and stared up into the face of Luther, who was regarding them both with a curious expression and his arms crossed over his chest. Peter put an arm out across Connie Alexander as soon as he realized there was danger, pulling his shotgun from the side of the bed, and aiming it at Luther.

Luther was now a threat, and Peter was allowed to deter him if he so chose. He was no longer protected under the contract.

"Connie," Luther said, chidingly. "I'm disappointed in you."

The woman pushed herself off of the bed and stared him down, her fists clenched at her sides. Peter removed himself from the bed as well, still holding the shotgun on Luther. "I'm leaving you, Luther," Connie Alexander said. "So you can just _get the hell out!"_

Luther's eyebrows shot up, but his face creased in a smile. "Really, Connie," he said, shaking his head at her. "I hadn't figured you would walk out on me with your slave―"

"Get _out!"_ she shrieked. "Or I'll sic Peter on you―"

"Roll on Columbia," Luther said, his mouth curving in a sick smile.

* * *

Charon turned to Emily. He obeyed the trigger words, dropping his shotgun and grabbing her around the throat. His thumbs went to her neck and began to press inward.

Emily managed a shriek and brought a bottle around, smashing him in the temple with it. He gritted his teeth and blinked through the alcohol and glass that was dripping down his face and stinging his eye, and applied more pressure to her throat.

She began to choke and spit, her fingers clawing at his face, hooking his mouth, jabbing his exposed eardrums. Her arms, burdened with the extra fat from so many snack cakes, wiggled and flailed about as he slowly began to strangle her. She moved her feet up, walking herself up his legs, pushing herself backward in an attempt to get free.

But she wouldn't. Charon obeyed the contract.

He obeyed the kill switch built into the contract which allowed him to murder his employer. Luther had used it on him once before, and he was powerless to fight the conditioning. The only reason the kill switch existed at all was to keep the guardians from being used against those who had made them into merciless killing machines.

It was not meant to used in such a manner, to deliberately remove someone from existence because they were trouble.

Emily's face as he held her out at arm's length, his hands constricting her airway, was a parade of contortion. She was crying, tears streaming from her eyes, her mouth bobbing open and closed, her feet planted on his knees and pushing with all the strength she had. She began to turn red, her eyes bugging out of her face. He did not want to see her face. He did not want to harm her. But he had to obey the contract.

She was not as smart as Connie Alexander, but she was a fighter. She would not go down easy, like Connie Alexander had. Charon would have to fight her until the very last movement―

"I cannot believe that you are back in Annapolis," Luther was saying, chuckling to himself. he picked the pencil back up and began going over paperwork, casually, as if there wasn't a terrible act being committed in front of his eyes. "Would have thought you knew better than to allow your employer to come this way. Especially after that mess with Connie."

Emily's legs began to tremble. One of her feet slid off of his knee and hit the floor. Her hands were at his wrists, now, fingers digging into the flesh. It looked as if she was giving into the strangulation―but Charon knew better. Emily's foot on his knee began to push against him, preparing for a kick.

He pushed her into the nearest wall, slamming her back into it with too much force. She made an awful noise, the last bit of breath she had in her lungs expelled by the motion. Her legs went limp as he lifted her up against the surface, pressing her head backward and adjusting his grip on her neck. Her blue eyes were on his, filled with the same pain he had seen her give so many months ago, when she freed him. She _knew_ she would die.

He couldn't feel anything for her. The contract didn't allow for him to have any thoughts of familiarity, so he was forced to feel only revulsion or anger. Emily made him angry as she jerked her head forward and slammed her face into his, causing her nose to bleed. The bruise from before was faded, but still there. Charon's eyes traced the bruise as he squeezed her neck. He remembered.

She had been lost on the highway, and he was separated from her. He should have found her immediately. She had been assaulted by the slavers and her nose broken. He remembered when she found him again, busted and bleeding. He remembered what he had felt at the time, but he could not feel the emotion associated.

He did not want to hurt her, but he had to. He had no choice.

* * *

 _A memory ~_

Connie Alexander's neck under his hands was thin and her flesh felt soft to his touch. He strangled her without much effort, breaking her neck with a swift application of force. She fought for a short while, but ultimately gave in.

Peter could not feel anything but his anger at Luther, his anger at himself, his anger that he was being used for such purpose. He was not a murderer―but he had been made into one. He was a guardian, a companion, a protector. And he had just killed his employer. He was not supposed to be able to harm her, yet he had betrayed her in an ultimate manner.

Luther strode over to the woman's body as Peter dropped her onto the floor, and retrieved the contract from her pocket. "How amusing," he muttered, to himself. "Come, Peter. I hold your contract, now."

Peter obeyed.

Luther brought him to a crater on the outskirts of Annapolis, and stared out across the gap with a cruel look on his face. "I _do_ have use for you," Luther said. "But, in the interest of furthering my own business, I really cannot have you around. It would be far too easy for someone else to use you against _me."_ He stood behind Peter at the edge of the crater and sighed to himself. "Such a waste. In you go."

A boot on his lower back pushed him down into the crater, where he tumbled and fell into a pile of radioactive sludge. Peter felt fear, then. For the first time in his entire life, he was afraid, because this was danger that he could not escape. He would die―

And he wished to; he had murdered Connie Alexander, and he had been bought to protect her. He deserved to die. He had been used for such an ignoble purpose and it filled him with disgust. He wanted to be dead. It was the first free thought he had experienced since his conditioning began.

He did not die. His skin began to bubble and boil. The pain was like nothing he'd ever felt before, incomparable to even the heat of open flame. He felt the boiling sting of the radiation, felt the skin on his body begin to explode outward. His vision blurred and warped and it was if he would never stop feeling such terror―it continued for what felt like an eternity. He growled and screeched in the agony, his limbs thrashing in the glowing liquid.

But it did stop. It reversed itself; he felt stronger, more agile, and his vision cleared. He could accurately see the nature of his punishment. He had become a ghoul.

When he was able to, he returned to his employer.

* * *

Emily gagged and made terrible noises under his hands. He didn't know why it was taking him so long to strangle her. Perhaps his temporary freedom from the contract had given him more leeway in dealing with other trigger words.

He remembered Emily passing out on the road and having to carry her to a cardboard mat, so that she could sleep it off in peace. She was so much like Connie Alexander, it was disturbing. She drank too much; she had an aggressive nature; she had promised to free him. She was broken by her experiences in the wastes.

Charon felt the sickness rising in his stomach but he could not fight it. He watched Emily's mouth, swollen with the flush of blood that could not leave her head, and saw the voiceless words she was saying.

 _Fuck._ She was singing to herself again. As she had before, when she had returned from the Enclave. Colonel Autumn's holotape. Her pretty lips, distorted by violence, were running through the chorus of "This Land is Your Land". Charon growled and released his hands.

Why had he―Emily collapsed to the floor, and did not move. _Why_ had he released her, when she was not dead? The order was specific that he should kill her. There was no other outcome to be expected of him.

Charon felt the same as he had before. But―there was something else. He walked to the desk and retrieved his combat shotgun, and stared down at Emily's prone form. She was pretending to be dead. He had not killed her. She had triggered something, with her soundless song.

It made sense, now. He understood. The likelihood of someone coming across such a trigger word completely by chance was so low―but Emily was _lucky._ She had always been lucky. Charon had not. He had withstood all manner of abuse throughout his long life, beginning with kidnapping and culminating into his torturous relationship with the stupid girl. He had very nearly killed her for the second time.

It was two times too many, for his liking.

His head snapped around and stared down Luther. Luther tapped the desk with his pencil, then looked across the floor to Emily. "Hmmm," he said. "It's a _shame._ She was really quite attractive. I suppose it can't be _helped,_ though." He stood and stretched, then ordered Charon to pick Emily's body up and follow him.

Charon lifted his shotgun and painted the wall with Luther's brains.


	14. In Which Emily is Broken

Note: Oops, minor continuity problem. Fixed it.

* * *

Charon lowered his shotgun by an inch to examine the crater that made up the man's head. Luther was most definitely dead. Charon double tapped him, for good measure, then turned to Emily.

He held the shotgun at his side and knelt beside her, turning her over onto his knees with one hand and looking down at her. She had bled from her nose when she headbutted him, and there was so much of it splattered all over her... and the flimsy outfit she'd chosen to wear. They could not escape this place with her covered in so much blood―it would draw alarm onto them. Bruising and swelling had set in. Her chest barely rose with each breath, and the stretch of skin between her collarbone and her chin was something he would rather not have seen. It should not have happened.

He groaned to himself and felt her neck for a pulse. She was seriously injured. He would not had expected anything else. Columbia was not a forgiving order.

She was _alive,_ however, if not conscious. She had not been pretending to be dead; she had passed out and was damn near close to dying. Charon grabbed her pack and pulled out a handful of chems, and stuck her with a series of stimpaks and a med-x needle. She would be in too much pain to move without the chems, and he needed her to be moving as quickly as possible.

They would probably have to shoot their way out of the building. No one had approached the room, yet; Charon was aware there was a bodyguard immediately outside the office, but he had not yet appeared inside. The more time they spent inside the room, the more time the bodyguard had time to set up a trap or an ambush, and they could not afford to be taken out like that.

Charon had not spent the last few months being annoyed half to murder by the stupid girl in order to die like a bitch in Annapolis. He snorted. If he were to think about it he did not plan to die _at all,_ because his dying was always going to be going out like a bitch. He shot another glance at Emily's face. Her breathing had evened out but she had not yet woken up.

Goddammit, he hoped she did not have brain damage from the lack of oxygen. The last thing he needed was to be saddled with a truly stupid brat―

Charon looked up and away from her, rolling his eyes up into his head. It would do him no good to treat her like that. Not when she had claimed that she lov―he grumbled to himself and looked down at her face again. She _was_ stupid, though. She did not ever think about herself. She rushed headlong into disaster, just like her idiot father. It would eventually kill her, just as it had her father.

He moved his hand roughly along the outside of her leg, upward into her curves, and pinched her on the ass as hard as he dared. She barely reacted, moving her legs and arms away from him, rolling off his lap. Charon glanced back at the door and grabbed her hips, then put his shotgun down and grabbed her shoulders. He pulled her onto his lap and held her as gently as he could manage, pressing her into him.

"Emily," he said, putting his mouth onto the side of her head. "Emily, get up. We have to leave."

She stirred a little more, but did not open her eyes. Charon breathed out into her hair, smelling the cleanliness. Emily always smelled good. He closed his eyes and rubbed her shoulder, feeling the smooth skin along her bicep.

"Emily, get up," he said again, rubbing her firmly.

She made an awful noise―he expected that, her vocal chords had been compressed with near-lethal force―and moved sluggishly. Charon opened his eyes and pulled his head away from hers, looking down at her.

 _"Aaaar..."_ she groaned out, slowly putting her arms up to her neck, and turning her head. She did not open her eyes.

"We have to leave, Emily," he said, tightening his grip on her shoulder. "We will die if we remain here."

She made a noise. She was laughing. She gurgled out something he could not make out and Charon muttered to himself, laying her gently onto the floor. She could not move under her own power―even with so many stimpaks applied she was hurting, and he could not carry her through the building. It would render him unable to shoot effectively, and would get them both killed.

Charon left her on the floor. He checked his shotgun and opened the office door, roughly. If she were to die―

He did not know how he would react, but it would not be pleasant. He stepped out into the building and sought out the opposition.

* * *

It took him twenty minutes to clear the building. The asshole with the plasma rifle had been the hardest to take out, hiding himself along the railing on the upper floor until Charon was returning to Emily. He suffered a plasma burn along the side of his head, his ragged hair catching fire from the indescribable nature of pure energy.

As if he was worried about appearances. The shot along his eardrum had done no real damage, nothing more than pissing him off. After he had tracked down the culprit he beat the man with bare fists until he collapsed, placed his boot on the man's neck, and shot him in the head. He grabbed up the plasma rifle on a thought, stuffing it into the pack that Emily had carried into the building.

She was equipped with the laser rifle the soldier had given her, a reliably sturdy weapon. It had been repaired recently, and looked well-loved. Charon appreciated that the soldier knew his business. He still did not enjoy the thought that the soldier was so obsessed with Emily, but he could no more stop the man than stop himself. Emily was like that; she burrowed into whatever epidermis one might have, and wiggled around like a goddamn parasite.

He returned to Emily with a haul of weapons and a set of leather armor. She was still lying on the ground, curled up on herself, her arms wrapped around the back of her head. "Emily," he said, laying a hand onto her arm.

She flinched and jerked away, pressing herself along the edge of the wall with her legs. Charon dropped the pack and held out the leather armor, crouching next to her. She finally opened her eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed. They did not meet his, focusing instead on the armor he held. She had been crying, and there were clean trails of tears through the blood surrounding her nose.

"I will leave this here," he said, evenly. He placed the armor on the floor beside her and a bottle of water for her to clean up with, beside it. When he was sure she understood, he stood up and left her alone, guarding the door.

She was so very lucky. It struck him as strange that she had survived his assaults, twice. Strange that he had not yet managed to kill her, and that she was tough enough to withstand him. She'd told him that he near strangled her before, when she freed him of the contract, but that he had willingly let her go because he did not intend to kill her―that he had managed self-control even under the vestiges of drunkenness to stop himself.

He remembered that, now. Whatever had been stopping him from recalling the events of his past... he now remembered everything. He might have thought Emily a liar, before―she'd admitted to it. She had not lied to him about his actions while drunk, however. He _had_ strangled her.

It was much worse, this time. He grumbled to himself, feeling the now-familiar ache inside his chest. He was afraid for Emily. As long as he was around her, she was in danger. Even if he were temporarily freed from the contract, he was a threat to her. Just as he had been a threat to Connie Alexander; someone would always know the words to trigger him. He did not like the thought.

A good protector, a real guardian, would deliver her safely into the arms of someone who did not intend to harm her. He could no longer rely on himself to protect her, but he knew... the soldier would. Emily would not like what he intended to do; she might make good on her threat to kill him. He hoped it would not come to that.

He would have to put some distance between them before she realized he was not going to stay with her, any longer. If she attempted to kill him, he would defend himself. No matter their strange relationship.

Muffled noises from inside the office brought him out of his thoughts. Emily opened the door and held the pack loosely in one hand, her head lowered. She had replaced her wastehound helmet and put on the leather armor; she moved out of the office, shut the door quietly, and began to walk away without speaking.

Charon followed, his hand on his shotgun, feet tramping along behind her heavily.

* * *

Instead of going away from Annapolis, Emily spent the next three hours exploring the city. Charon followed her without speaking. She had not said a word to him, nor to anyone else, in that time. Eventually she found her way to a bunker set into the ground, through a familiar stone arch and courtyard.

Charon knew what she was doing, now. He could _not_ let her do this.

"Emily―" he said, reaching out to grab her upper arm.

She stopped, turned, and before he could see her move she laid a fist into the side of his face. He released her in surprise. She had not hit him in the face since he returned from Maryland, when she thought he was dead.

She raised her fist up again and made a flat palm, then made the motion he remembered from the first time he'd ever met her. Stay put. Charon growled and grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer to him.

"I will _not!"_ he said, mustering as much anger as he could. _"You_ cannot break the contract, Emily. _No one_ can―"

She didn't speak, still. Her wrist under his was limp. She grabbed his shoulder with her free hand, squeezing him tightly, and lifted her knee in an un-Emily-like maneuver. She kneed him in the groin―the pain was not enough to cause him to collapse, but he did release her with a jerk. She had never done anything so nasty, not to him or anyone else. She had finally gotten mad.

She made the motion again, and pushed him away from her, moving toward the bunker door. Charon could not let her go into that place. He caught up with her in a few steps, grabbing her by the shoulders this time. "Do _not_ do this!" he growled. "It is _not_ worth―"

She muffled some alien growl behind her mask, and pulled the soldier's rifle from her back. She swung it down and struck him on the forehead then aimed it on him, pushing it up under his chin. Charon did not move his head, but stared at her through the bottom of his eyes.

"Emily," he said, very seriously, "I understand if you are angry. I am sorry for my actions―" She pushed the lens of the rifle into his chin harder. He did not let her go. "I do not want you to go there," he added. "It is _too dangerous."_

She made another strange noise, and the front of her wastehound helmet darkened in trails under the eyes. She was crying. Charon exhaled, staring down at her. "You do not love me," he said, his words echoing painfully through his head. "Do not do this because you feel there is something here. There is _nothing."_

Emily removed her weapon, slowly. Her hands on the soldier's rifle tightened and shook, rattling the weathered frame. It hurt her, him pushing her away. She really did lov―he blinked and realized his own thoughts. It hurt him, too. But he was a _hell_ of a lot tougher than Emily.

"I do not want to have to stop you, but I will," he said, threateningly. "We both know who will win this fight."

She choked out a sob, then, dropping the rifle and crouching to the ground. Emily shoved her face into her knees and held them, rocking back and forth on her feet. Charon stared at her for a moment, before retrieving the rifle and hauling her up around the shoulder.

"Do not treat his rifle so badly," he grumbled, and began to drag her away from the bunker. "You are going to return it to him, and apologize."

She cried silently as he lifted her off the ground, carrying her away.


	15. In Which Charon Leaves Her

He dragged her about fifty feet before she kicked out and took his knee out from under him. Charon made a very threatening noise and spread his feet across the rocky earth to catch himself. After he stopped moving, he pulled her up to his face and bared his teeth at her.

"Stop fighting!" he snarled, through his teeth.

She raised her free hand and jabbed him him the eyes, quickly. He growled and shook her back and forth, unfazed by the unforeseen attack. His hand on her shoulder tightened and the other grabbed her free hand, wrapping his torn fingers around hers. Emily kicked out again, pushing her feet into his knee, trying to take him down.

Charon growled again and shook her violently, causing her head to spin. "You will stop this _stupidity_ at once!" he said, and hoisted her up over a shoulder, carrying her off. After a moment he ducked into a ruined building and tromped up the stairs inside, dumping her onto a pile of bricks that had once been a wall.

She wasn't crying now. She stared up at him through the helmet and contemplated her options. Charon was too tough to take down― _but_ ―if she forced him under the contract again―

He pulled her helmet from her head, roughly, tearing out a few strands of hair with it, and leaned down onto one knee. His face moved into hers, his hands on her cheeks, holding her gently. Emily stared up at him, into his brightly-colored eyes. She hoped hers were devoid of emotion―or at least angry as _all hell―_

Charon sighed, and visibly relaxed. "Emily..."

She brought a hand up to punch at him again, and he shut her down quickly. He grabbed her fist, and pinned her arm above her head onto the rubble, making a frustrated noise. Emily growled at him, and he pinned her other hand, kneeling on all fours over her body. His knees came together and squeezed her legs together, so she couldn't move them to kick at him. She struggled against him for a few minutes, but he held her too tightly.

"Quit," he snarled. "I do not want to fight you."

"Let me go," she said, her voice almost too hoarse to make out. It hurt to speak. Her face contorted with the pain.

"No," he said, and she shrieked in anger, pushing her chest upward and trying to hit him with her head. "Stop it!"

 _"No!"_ she growled, fighting as hard as she could.

"Goddammit, Emily!" he said, his hands tightening painfully on her wrists.

Emily gasped in pain and started crying again. _"Get it right,"_ she croaked out, her fingers moving across his knuckles. She dug fingernails into his hands in a vain attempt to make him let go.

"We do _not,"_ Charon growled, pressing harder onto her hands. "We do not have to get anything right, and we will _never_ make it okay, again."

Emily shrieked out, and lifted her head from the ground, headbutting at him. Charon moved his head out of the way of her attack, then pressed his forehead onto hers, pressing her head into the rubble.

"You―" he growled in annoyance. "Do you want me to _say_ it?"

She stopped struggling, staring at him. "Say―" she started.

"You want me to tell you I love you? I cannot, Emily," he rasped, his hot breath scraping across her face. She dropped her eyes across his ruined mouth, smelling his breath. It wasn't pleasant. Charon was never pleasant. Emily didn't care.

"I do not know _how_ to love," he said. "I never will. It is who I am." He rubbed her head gently with his forehead. "It is the contract and it is my life. I _cannot love you, Emily!"_

Tears dripped from her eyes, falling off her cheeks and into her ears. Cold wetness, uncomfortable on her skin, met the heat Charon put off, and she shivered. He'd strangled her almost to death and now this? Now he was telling her he was incapable of loving her because of the contract? He was making a determined effort to push her away, even though she'd warned him she would kill him if he left her―

And he didn't want her to break him free―she knew there _had_ to be a way, there was always a way―she swallowed and made a pained noise. Her neck wasn't broken; there had been damage to part of her trachea, though. Her breaths as they exited her were wheezing and high-pitched, and her voice hoarse like his. It was unbelievably painful even with the stimpaks he'd applied to her. Maybe it would never go back to normal.

"No," she whispered, tears occluding her eyes. He was blurry and dark, above her.

"I do..." he started, reluctantly. _"Feel._ Something other than anger. You and I both know that is not good for you. It leads to danger, for you." He moved his forehead against hers again. "You were taken from me, Emily. The slavers nearly destroyed you. I will _not_ let that happen again."

Emily watched his face, blinking away tears. He shut his eyes and breathed out, evenly. "Charon," she rasped. Her voice did really sound like a ghoul voice, now. It was weird, hearing her own voice coming out like his. "No," she said, her voice hurting.

"Emily," he said, and opened his eyes. "Please go back to the soldier."

She gasped and sobbed and the pain in her throat increased, and she pushed her swollen mouth into his. Charon jerked away from her, denying her a kiss. "No," she pleaded, _"no!"_

"I will not let you go," he said. "Until you _promise_ to go back to the soldier."

 _"Contract,"_ she threatened, quietly.

"You will not do that," he replied. "That is not who you are." He stared down at her.

Emily stared back and swallowed again, and cried some more. She―she had thought about it, at first. Her own morality told her she couldn't do it, that it was wrong to force it on him, again―to be forced on him by the _last_ person he would expect to do that―but she needed him to let her get it right, this time.

He was holding her painfully tight, and she felt the crushed voice in her throat catching. He'd―he'd throttled her almost to death because of the contract and she wasn't going to put up with that, anymore. It had to go, even if―even if he felt nothing for her. Even if he left, she had to break that goddamn contract once and for all. She was tired of it being used against people―against her, against Charon.

She knew now why she loved him, as _stupid_ as felt... even if it was one-sided. As hurtful as it was to hear him tell her that she did not love him and there was nothing between them, she knew there was. She wouldn't hurt so _badly_ if she didn't feel _something―_

Emily was broken, and she couldn't be fixed. Not by the soldier, not by the ghoul, not by _anyone,_ anymore. Not like Charon could be fixed, if she got rid of the contract. She was completely shattered and there was no glue that could repair her in the entire fucking wasteland. She was broken and the pain and love and hurt and fear leaked into her through the cracks of her shell, that shell that she had cultivated so carefully before she was thrust into the world by cruel fate.

That shell that she had cracked on purpose, when she met Charon and purchased his contract. She'd decided that she had to take a stand against something―something that she determined to be slavery. For Charon, she'd taken up her arms against all the slavers she could, destroying them with impunity.

Her shell had cracked even further with her father's death and the numbness that set in, afterwards. That was when Irving found his way in. She couldn't see it coming because she wasn't thinking about love, when he'd offered to take her on his nightly runs. She regretted ever going out with him into the ruins, now. It had made him sad, and made her guilty. Now she understood why Irving hurt so badly, why he was willing to let her hurt him, and she felt so much worse for that.

She couldn't be perfect for him. She was too broken to ever be _perfect,_ for _anyone._

The cracks hadn't mattered when she had freed Charon from the contract, in Megaton. He'd filled in her shell from behind, keeping out the nastiness of the wastes and keeping the loneliness at bay. He had been there for her, when she needed it... even if he complained constantly about being a living teddy bear. He'd kept her sane, until he was forced under the contract again.

She couldn't be around him until that contract was gone, gone forever. ...Did she really want him to be around her, to make it okay, to hold her at night and be the grumpiest fucking _bastard_ she'd ever met? Without Charon, she would―she didn't know. He kept her in line, kept her safe, showed her that she was still a stupid _child_ ―that was important. When Emily was stupid, she always hurt herself... and he caught her if she fell.

She still loved him, even if he hurt her now. God, was _that_ ever justice.

Emily stared up at the ragged flesh around his head, the burn marks from some recent injury, the clumps of hair that had been singed. The muscle exposed under the patches of skin that remained, the blood vessels that lay just under a thin veneer, able to be cut open with a quick motion. He was vulnerable in his own way, but the wastes had hardened him where she could never be hardened. She would _never_ be as indestructible as Charon. She would _never_ have a cold outside like Irving had, either.

She was just Emily.

She sobbed hoarsely, her voice broken. She couldn't forgive him, this time. Even though she wanted for him she couldn't let him into her shell again, because she would only get hurt over and over until...

Until she was forced to hurt him or hurt herself. And she couldn't hurt him. It was literally impossible for her to try to hurt him. He was right in that she knew who would win that fight. She would only hurt _herself,_ if she let this continue―she _had_ to do it.

"Do..." she said. She stared past his head into the distance, watching the clouds mash together in her blurred vision, swimming with pain and tears. "Do..."

Charon held her, still, looking down at her. She swallowed and felt the awful pain of her injury, and fought back bile as her stomach roiled. She had to do it, even if it made her sick to her stomach to think about it.

"Do Re―" she croaked out, and squeezed her eyes shut, stifling a sob.

 _"Emily―"_ he growled. "Would you really do this―"

"Do..." she managed, before he released one of her hands and brought his free hand around, slapping her hard across the cheek. She gasped out in shock and pain.

"If you put me back under contract and go into that bunker, I _will_ be used against you again!" he snarled. "Do not be stupid! You are always so _stupid!"_

She rubbed her face with her now-free hand and felt the slickness of the leather, the pain it brought from her repeatedly-broken nose. It wouldn't heal properly, anyway. She'd been re-breaking it for the pain to keep her focused.

"Do Re..." she started, and Charon released her, walking away. He took the stairs down, moving fast. She could hear the broken bricks under his boots crunching as he hit the road outside of the building.

He left her alone in Annapolis.

 _He left her._


	16. In Which Charon is Gone

Note: Slow updates lately because I've been working on side projects for a library craft sale. :3 Mama makes crochet snakes. Anyway, here's the latest two chapters to enjoy.

* * *

Emily laid on the rubble for a long time, in shock. Charon had _left_ her there. He was gone. He'd stomped away. Because―

Because she'd betrayed him. She'd tried to put him back under contract, _on purpose._ That was not who Emily was. Charon was right. It didn't make sense why she should fight so hard against him when all he wanted was for her not to go, because it was dangerous. Because he didn't want to lose her, even if―she blinked back the tears. It didn't make her feel better that she had betrayed him, because he _did_ care.

And it didn't make her throat stop hurting, or her head stop pounding, or the tears that threatened to fall, go away. Didn't make her feel any better, the thought that she deserved to be in misery for the stunt she'd tried to pull. God, she was _so stupid!_

This whole... thing, _everything_ about Annapolis... was a mess. She ought to have come in, guns blazing, and shot up all the slavers and the slave owners and everyone who posed a threat. But... if she were any good at shooting... she wouldn't have had Charon around. And they wouldn't have come to Annapolis.

She wanted for these assholes to be dead. Wanted them all to die horribly, burned up like Jerome Walker, captured themselves by Super Mutants, melted into plasma goo on a hot sidewalk somewhere. Charon would have approved of such a thought, before, and Emily would have done what she could if he were with her. Not that she could do much. She couldn't even defend herself against _him,_ when it came down to it.

She was just some _stupid little_ _girl_ from a Vault with little skill other than her knowledge of science. Her dad wouldn't have approved of her murdering a bunch of people, even if they were slavers. He would have sought a more diplomatic approach. Emily had always been a disappointment to him.

For a moment she laid there, thinking about her dad. About how he'd given up on Project Purity because he wanted her to be safe. Safe in the Vault, where he thought she could live out her life in peace. Until he left, everything seemed... okay. Her reputation aside, she'd had a fairly decent job and her grades hadn't been terrible. Her dad being the doctor meant she was expected to follow in his footsteps, which she had been willing to do―until he left.

He'd left her more than once. _Everyone_ left her.

Except Irving, but he―

Her dad would have approved of Irving. He was a good man. He was Brotherhood of Steel and proud. And he was competent at his job, which she couldn't say about herself in this moment.

Emily sighed and stared up at the sky. Irving was too _safe,_ though. She'd be bored of him in such a short time, and then she'd hurt him somehow. She knew it. She'd probably find someone else to dick around with and mess everything up for Irving... for herself. She wasn't capable of being loyal―

Not to Irving, anyway. The only thing that kept her loyal to Charon was knowing he'd beat the shit out of any man who she might flirt with. She'd seen it in practice too often to not believe it.

But, once again, except Irving. Charon hadn't warned off the soldier because... _well..._ Emily had never actively flirted with him around the ghoul. He'd asked her if she wanted him to shoot the soldier when he returned from Maryland, but―it wasn't a serious question. Charon didn't consider Irving a threat. Maybe because he knew Irving wouldn't harm her? And Charon telling her to go to him? That proved it. He... _he_ approved of Irving, too.

Because Charon couldn't love her. And Irving already _did._

She felt like there were no more tears to be had. Like some kind of vampire had sucked them all out. Emily laid there, staring at the sky, and debated what to do. She couldn't... really feel, right now. Too much, too soon. She felt empty, weakened.

She _couldn't_ ―couldn't go into the bunker, now. Not if Charon wasn't around to prove the effort, to show that her search would be fruitful. As far as her "mission" went... the slavers were already bereft of leadership. Charon had killed the leader and the guards in the building. She ought to sow disharmony among the slaver camps, break them up and get them running. It would help the Brotherhood effort, causing chaos like that.

Emily pushed herself upwards from the rubble and stood up, brushing dust from the leather armor. Maybe it _was_ stupid, like Charon said, to go to the guardian bunker. It was definitely stupid to try to put him back under the contract just so he would do what she said. She shouldn't have done that. But she _had,_ and now he was _gone._

She wavered, catching a broken wall so she didn't fall. It might be better to go back to Irving and at least―at least tell him what had happened. But... she sighed and leaned down, picking up her wastehound helmet. But if she went back and he saw what happened to her neck... it was disgusting, what Charon had done. Irving might not understand. He didn't seem sympathetic to the ghoul or the contract.

She looked through her pack and pulled out the weapons that Charon had gathered from the men in the slaver headquarters. She looked over at Irving's rifle. He wouldn't approve of her going 'round and killing slavers willy-nilly. Of _course_ he wouldn't. She would be putting herself into the path of danger, and Irving wanted her safe.

Emily got mad, then. Why should she―why should she _bother,_ anymore? _Fuck_ safety. She was going to get herself _killed,_ sooner or later. Might as well give it a shot, _right now._

She stood up and walked away from the building, clutching Irving's rifle in one hand and the wastehound mask in the other.

* * *

It took her a couple of hours to figure out a plan.

She found herself at a bar somewhere near the shore, a crumbling brownstone house that had nothing more than three walls and a ceiling. She sat at one of the dingy open-air tables and stared out across the rotting boards of the piers and at the boats that still bobbed in the water. Many boats had been partially or fully sunk here, their masts poking out of the water and hulls rusted with age and seawater.

Her throat was colored violently. _Appropriately,_ for her behavior. _Deserved it._ She could still feel the pain, but she was drinking and the swallowing motion made it hurt more. Of course she could feel the pain. Whiskey didn't numb her like it ought to have, but it would kill the pain of being strangled.

The rest of her pain was so bad... she couldn't even _begin_ to feel it.

Emily pinched her nose again and coughed up blood and drank whiskey and tried her damnedest not to think. She did a good job of it, staring at the waves as they rolled across the water, as they licked the rocky shore. She stared at the tattered sails of the masts that still poked out of the water. Life was stupid. _Emily_ was stupid.

 _Guess it's time to go get killed, then._

Emily finished her whiskey without a word, paid for another bottle, and carried it away into the city with her. She could feel the caps in her pocket jingling, feel Irving's rifle banging across her back as she moved, feel the cracking of her bones in her neck.

Yeah, she still had work to do.

* * *

Outside of the building where Luther had been, there was a vendor with a damn good gun on his wall. Emily bartered the weapons she had and paid him entirely too many caps for the infiltrator rifle. She inspected it while on the move. It would do.

She moved up into the town hall and gone as high up into the cupola as she could, and climbed through a narrow opening out onto the roof. Irving's training had taught her that sniping was best done from as high a position as possible. She found a spot on the edge of the cupola with adequate roof for her to lay down and put her pack to the side. Irving's rifle was in there. She wouldn't dare use it for what she intended to do.

After placing a few landmines around the little hole she'd climbed through, she set up some bottles of water and a couple boxes of Fancy Lads beside her sniper nest. She was set to be there for as long a time as was necessary.

The sun was fading. Emily squeezed her nose once more and blinked away the blurriness in her eyes, and picked up an inhaler of jet. She coughed up more blood, but the jittery edge that the chems gave her was what she needed. She laid herself onto the edge of the roof and lined up her rifle, and stared out into the city.

There were slavers in the market; a group of people on the auction block, being sold. She could see the last rays of the sun lighting up their metal collars, and her fingers tightened on the weapon. She looked around through the scope of the rifle for a moment, identifying several targets. Her breath stopped along with her heart as she saw the family that she and Charon had brought into the city, standing on the block.

That was a good starting point. Emily lined up the shot and took it, once her heart started beating again.

Chaos erupted in the market. Two slavers dropped immediately, the rest scattering into the buildings around it. Slaves fled left and right, running with their hands over their heads. Emily pulled her head away and rubbed her eye, and looked back through the scope, and began shooting again.

A missile exploded over her head, showering her with bits of marble. She brought the rifle around and found the asshole with the launcher, then picked him off. Another man ran for the launcher and she shot him in the leg, then through the back as he sprawled forward. She had to shoot him two more times before he stopped moving altogether.

More shots, more kills. She was better with a rifle than she'd thought. She reloaded and brushed shell casings off the edge of the roof, watching as they clinked down the side of the building. Bullets were impacting the sides of the roof but she'd not been hit yet―it was a good spot to be in, far enough up that no one could hit her.

The sun was almost entirely gone. For a moment, she perused the sky, enjoying the remainder of the sunset. Might be her last one. She turned her scope back down to the market.

There was a familiar sound in the air. Through the screaming and the loud sounds of the infiltrator as she pulled the trigger, she heard a faint noise that caused her pause. Emily turned her ear down to the market and waited for the sound to occur. A shotgun blast.

She gasped and breathed out, softly, her hands starting to shake. The scope moved jerkily as she turned it down to the general direction of the sound, and she nearly dropped the rifle. She saw―

Charon, fighting the slavers around a building, taking them out as they exited. Emily sat up and pressed her back to the corrugated metal, holding up the rifle and breathing out through her nose raggedly. Why was he...? _No,_ she thought. _Ignore that thought._

She pinched her nose again and moved back into position, moving the scope to the place where he'd been. She shot at and hit at least two slavers near him, shoulders and legs and chest shots, never a heart shot. She wasn't that good. Charon was far better at killing than she would _ever_ be. Her neck twinged in pain.

After the slavers around the building were all dead, she found him again. Through the scope he looked so small, but still so intimidating. He was staring up at her, his shotgun up on his shoulder. Her hands shook on the rifle, rattling the frame. Charon raised his free hand and held up one finger, and pointed it to his right.

She panned the scope around and saw―


	17. In Which Emily is Sought Out

Note: We are finally getting somewhere with that pesky plot.

* * *

Irving's conscience had gotten the better of him, about two days after Emily left Gambrill. He knew the consequences―but he was ignoring them, like he ought to be ignoring his conscience. It was too late for _him._ After this, he was going to get his ass handed to him by Elder Lyons. It would be worse than being shot at by the Enclave, or fighting any number of wasteland creatures.

But he was almost entirely sure it would be _worth_ it, just to see Emily alive again.

Irving wanted her back safe, that was no lie. He'd remembered how impulsive she could be, right after she'd left. Every moment that had passed since made his heart pound, his breaths come a little faster, his hands shake a little more. Emily would―she would try to kill them all, if it came down to it. He doubted she could do that, if she freed the ghoul.

She would try to do that, too. She was loyal to everyone she trusted. Irving didn't want the damn ghoul to be freed of that ridiculous contract; Emily ought to have sold him back to whomever she purchased it from. All it had done so far was make her life difficult and cause her more anguish than she deserved.

At least she had a reliable weapon. He'd replaced his with another laser rifle, courtesy of John Turtle. It didn't fit in his hands as well as he would have liked, but it was a suitable weapon. It would be the same if he tried to move on from Emily; any woman he might replace her with would not fit quite the same. He should _not_ have let her go to Annapolis. He should _not_ have let her walk away from him at all.

He grew more impatient every hour, thinking about the situation. She wasn't due to report in for a week at, least, but he worried anyway. He would always worry for her. Until he died, or _she_ died―God, that made him hurt bad. Irving didn't want to think about that.

He ordered out the Brotherhood soldiers who had been protecting Gambrill. Kept them on watch through the first two days and nights, eyes on the abandoned and burned slaver camp. After his conscience got to him, he withdrew all Brotherhood support from Gambrill and marched out to the slaver camp Emily had tried to infiltrate. Wiped it out in a swift military maneuver and opened a path directly into Annapolis.

 _Do not fire unless fired upon_ was an order that the soldiers didn't like to hear, but he was resolute and they were well-trained. Gunny hadn't spent years drilling into their heads the importance of mindfulness and patience, to allow for them to fail. Irving knew they would listen, even if he was going against orders himself.

The fear that gripped his chest like a vice was too much to bear. Emily should be in the slaver camp they had just destroyed, but she was not. Recon indicated she had left some time ago, an entered the city under the guise of selling slaves to the A-Line. News of the Brotherhood approaching went ahead of them, courtesy of the slavers' information network. He knew that would happen. But they went anyway, regardless of who was expecting them. Irving _would_ get her back safe.

She was somewhere in Annapolis―probably just where she'd wanted to be, somewhere she could help the ghoul. Based on the general information about guardians imparted by John Turtle, Irving knew how to find the bunker where their conditioning took place.

She was not there, _either._ The only thing the soldiers found was more dead bodies and rooms empty of life. They swept the bunker and found rooms equipped with practice dummies, equipment storage areas, rooms with military-style bedding, and a whole level devoted to surgery. Irving noted the consoles on every level had been completely destroyed. Every person in the bunker―aside from a group of scared children hiding in a wing of the medical level―had been killed with a shotgun blast.

Emily's ghoul had been there, but she had not? There was nothing to indicated the loaned laser rifle had been used on these people. Irving was worried even _more_ by that. Perhaps it was part of her plan, but... there was another event that caused him worry, as well.

The recent assassination of the ghoul who ran the A-Line out of the town hall, which had happened less than two hours prior. Walking through the brick streets, the soldiers heard the rumors from gossiping slaves and slave-owners. It was the the outcome Irving had expected of Emily's infiltration.

With the leader out of the way, the slavers would be in chaos, until they designated a new leader. The perfect time to strike, if the Brotherhood had been poised to do so. They weren't, however. The timing was inopportune. Emily's plans were chaotic and could _barely_ be considered plans at all.

Whatever Emily had intended to do had either failed... or succeeded beyond her wildest dreams. The people of Annapolis were nervous and concerned, reluctant to engage the Brotherhood soldiers in conversation. The atmosphere left him without the element of surprise; he couldn't pull stealth tactics here.

Perhaps it would not be needed, if the rest of the slavers could be eradicated. If word was sent to the Citadel and a liberation force secured, the slaves of the city could be freed; perhaps they would remain to keep the farms outside of Annapolis from going fallow. It would be better to have negotiated such a thing, diplomatically securing the release of the slaves. He had planned for a two-year operation in Gambrill and a five-year follow-up operation in Annapolis. That was work gone to ruin, now.

Irving sighed to himself. Once again, Emily had forced his hand. She was so impatient.

The town hall was empty but for dead bodies, all killed with a shotgun. The ghoul had been here, as well. Still no sign of Emily, but plenty of signs of violence. Irving stationed the men at the entry and swept the building by himself, moving slowly and surely through the individual rooms. Found a pile of paperwork indicating the sales of slaves in the area―

A definitive link to the slavers at Paradise Falls. They were shipping slaves through the Capital wasteland to the north. Irving knew that much; he had neglected to tell Emily about the Pitt. She would―he groaned inside his head. Knowing _her,_ she would march right up there and get herself into trouble he couldn't even _begin_ to imagine. She did _not_ need to know about Ashur and the Scourge, or go anywhere _near_ the Pitt.

Reports in the papers indicated that the Paradise Falls slavers had been disposed of by a person or persons unknown. One mentioned an up-and-coming personality in the Capital Wasteland, a woman who was causing the A-Line too much trouble with her slaver-killing exploits. Other reports indicated that the A-Line had discovered who she was, and ordered out a caution against the Lone Wanderer.

Irving's hand shook on the paper that told him why. The Lincoln Memorial―he recalled that the freed slaves led by Hannibal Hamlin had gone through the Mall, taking up residence in the memorial. Emily had been there; she had taken out the slavers that operated in the memorial so that Hamlin and his people could get there. Leroy Walker, the brother of Jerome, had been dispatched by the A-Line to retrieve Hamlin. Emily had killed Leroy Walker.

Why the freed slaves would choose such a location, constantly subject to Super Mutant attacks, for a home, he had no idea. Hamlin had extended his gratitude to the Brotherhood soldiers nearby, who defended the area from threat. Lyons himself had had an audience with the man, prompting him to induct Emily into the Brotherhood without the normal training and knowledge she might need. Some of the Brotherhood hadn't been pleased with his decision, but the Chain held that the Elder's orders be obeyed. There wasn't much left of the Brotherhood that held to the past but for the Chain. It must be upheld.

Perhaps Elder Lyons had been planning for Emily to take part in the Annapolis mission. She hadn't shown much inclination to work with the Brotherhood since the purifier was completed. She'd only helped Elder Lyons with the water caravans because he'd managed to convince her of the future threat of the Enclave, if they were allowed to regroup. Emily's actions whilst supporting the Brotherhood in the final assault had been to the letter; she followed every order without deviance.

 _Irving's_ orders right now... he crumpled the paper in his hand. He would no longer be a Knight Captain, after this. He'd be lucky to be assigned to an Initiate position, and be able to start over from scratch. Elder Lyons would be severe with him. He was disappointed with himself, of course. If he was kicked out of the Brotherhood for insubordination, he would―

He didn't know what he might do. He hoped it would include Emily, though. If he could _find_ her.

Irving's hand paused on another piece of paper, looking for something to replace the thought of his impending dismissal and Emily's disappearance. He stared at the words it contained.

"Boys, this do-gooder Wanderer is heading east. Stupid bitch is coming for us, now. Take her _down._ I don't care _how_ you do it. She won't get the A-Line!"

Another note from a slaver named Cattal mentioned that the Lone Wanderer had approached his camp and requested a job, said she would get some slaves and come back. She hadn't attacked them, but tried to make her way in―and Cattal was going to send her up to Annapolis with the next shipment, if she kept up her ruse. "We should make a slave of this bitch, show her a little thing or two."

Irving's thoughts died in his head as he realized that the slavers had _known_ Emily was coming. They were aware that she was in the area, that she might try to get into Annapolis, that she would likely try to kill the A-Line leader. She had walked right into a goddamn _trap―_

 _And he had sent her there._

* * *

"Sweep the city. Find her now," he ordered, losing all semblance of his passive nature. He was done with being gentle, now. These assholes were no longer worthy of stealth but complete eradication, and he intended to do just that.

Three pairs of soldiers were out in the city, patrolling the streets, looking for her. Nothing came of it, and the sun was beginning to fall in the sky. Irving stared across the shore and out into the gray wall of sky that met the water, and felt the anger festering in his heart. If darkness fell in Annapolis without him finding her―

She'd had most of one week to get to Annapolis, like he had. She had a two and a half day start on him. If she had been trapped as the notes indicated, she was already dead. If she wasn't dead―

There was more than just anger inside him but he wouldn't allow for it to show. He wasn't thinking about that, now. If she was dead, she deserved vengeance and he would give it for her. He would give violence to this city, wholesale, until he recovered her body. He would not show mercy.

Irving felt the first touch of cold steel in his heart since he'd met her inside the Citadel, after her father died. It was altogether too comfortable for him to slip back into the icy exterior he'd held, until she unlocked his warmth.

Annapolis would _burn_ for destroying Emily.

Irving paused and looked out over the market. First―he would deal with her ghoul. The rotting bastard was staring at him across the marketplace, his shotgun loose at his side. He had been standing in the shadow of a building, watching Irving, for some time now.

If the _goddamn zombie_ had gotten Emily killed, Irving would burn _him._ Like a monster _should be burned._


	18. In Which Emily is Given Away

Note: I know I've been sticking to a particular method in this―two chapters from each character's VP―and I was trying my best to make a Gallows chapter work, but it did not flow very well, even after days of editing. So... next best thing. Partly the problem was trying to figure out how a Charon/Gallows conversation would work. Expect to see an Emily chapter next up, of course. It's a lot easier to write from her VP than the men.

We are fast approaching the end here, I think. If you guys have a particular want to see a triple ending again, I'll be needing to hear that now.

* * *

Charon walked away from Emily. He knew precisely what she was doing, and once he had gotten out of earshot he allowed himself to express how he felt about the matter. His knuckles immediately bloodied against the nearest wall, cracking the bricks and a few bones.

There was nothing he could do right now to make the situation any less terrible for either one of them; if he returned to Emily, she would undoubtedly try to ensnare him again. Probably in a much sneakier fashion; Emily knew how to play games. She was not dumb, but _goddamn_ was she _stupid!_

She had _never_ been this sneaky before, not with him. With him she had been transparent, and that was the something they had had; someone with whom they could each be who they were and not have to put up a front. She had destroyed that transparency, now.

At this point he thought it would be better to go back in there and deliver her a shotgun blast to the forehead, to destroy her pretty face and end her suffering. For Emily, there was nothing but suffering in this moment. He knew that. She would not willingly put him back under contract if she thought that there was another option. She would grapple with the anguish, she would be too emotional to see the danger around herself. And she would walk into that bunker and she would die.

If he were to get there before her... To have her find that he had destroyed the only chance she had to "get it right", as she put it... It did not make him happy to think about that, but it was the only thing he could do. Destroy once and for all, the place he had come from. Destroy any chance she would have to make him normal.

In his mind, she had gotten it right when she bought him from Ahzrukhal. Everything since had _not_ been right, nor had it been worth the much pain and misery it had brought. She had not attempted to change who he was since the beginning―she had only had him around to begin with because he was a ghoul. She was scared of him, and she wanted to make herself better. Somewhere along the line she had decided she wanted to change him, and not herself. Why? Why had she done that?

She had fought for his freedom because she wanted to right the wrong that had been his slavery under the contract, she said. He knew she was a good person. But she was running away from who she was, refusing to embrace her own goodness, because she did not _like_ who she was.

Charon was not content with who he was, either, but "getting it right" would not change that. Emily kept trying to make him better because... she loved him. Because she wanted him to be happy, because one of the two of them had to be happy with who they were.

Charon sighed and leaned his forehead onto the bricks. Goddammit, and he _did_ love her back. But he could not ever be happy with what he was, even if he were freed of the contract. It was not possible.

He took his shotgun up and examined it, then turned his head back to the building she was lying in. He did not want to leave her. She had forced his hand. She knew full well that it was not his fault that he was under contract, and she knew know how to put him under and how to loosen him, and she would not leave well enough alone. She would _never_ leave well enough alone.

If he walked away from her and never went back, she would get herself killed dealing with the guardian bunker. That was something he could not stand for. If she died, he―

Charon closed his eyes. He never slept, but he wished he could. Just to turn off the world for five minutes, right now, would be the greatest gift he had ever received. Five minutes of freedom from a constant stream of consciousness that had not shut off in sixty years, would be perfect.

God, he was tired. He was tired of being awake; he was tired of Emily and her naive ideals; he was tired of being abused and used as a weapon; but mostly he was tired of _existing._

But he was not about to kill himself. And he would not let Emily get herself killed, either, if he could avoid it.

* * *

His assumptions about the contract had been correct. There was no way out, no magical word that would break the conditioning. Emily would not believe it; she would further slip into this role she was playing, this hardened facade she put up, in order to make what she wanted to, happen.

In a way, he was proud of her. Indomitable force of will. Emily had the gumption to do whatever she wanted and she would do that, despite her troubles and her needy behavior. So long as she had that willpower she would remain living. Even if she thought she needed him, she didn't. She just needed to embrace her own willpower.

He killed them because they would continue conditioning the guardians. Not because they were bad people. They knew what they were doing was wrong but it was survival, like he had told Emily so many months before. By creating conditioned soldiers, they were providing survival in this fucked up world for people like Emily who could not survive on their own.

It would happen no longer, he made sure of that. No more people would be forced to enact Columbia, no more would be pressed into an ultimate form of slavery.

It was unfortunate that people like Luther had become acquainted with the conditioning; even more terrible that he had been allowed access to such information as Columbia. Charon did not know how the man had become a ghoul. He did not care to think about Luther now that he was dead. His revenge for Luther having made him into a murderer was complete.

But if Connie Alexander had lived and borne her child―

Charon did not know how to feel about her; he had not loved her, nor had he felt much other than his obligation for her. Connie Alexander had been... what Emily could have become, if Charon had not been relaxed from his conditioning. A capable scientist, working to provide power to the people, who had ideals and the force of will to engage them. He would have watched over her and the child, if she had lived, and he would have died as―as an equal partner in their relationship, if what Connie Alexander had said was true. He would have lived out his life naturally.

It was something he would have enjoyed, if not for Luther.

Luther had known he and Emily were in Annapolis. If Charon had not been forced back under the contract by John Turtle, he would have removed her from Annapolis. He couldn't stop her from doing as she pleased, then. He could only mitigate the damage she might incur, and protect her from active threats. He could not control her actions―

It did not please him to think that he had been trying to control Emily, at all. That was not something he wanted to do.

Charon destroyed everything he could in that bunker and went back to the building where he had left Emily. She was not there. After a moment of grumbling and cursing at her for being stupid, he cast his eyes out over the city and thought about where she might go.

That was when he found the Brotherhood soldier had come to Annapolis.

* * *

 _"Where is she?"_

It was a question, a threat, and a promise, rolled into one. Charon stared down at the soldier without reacting.

He was angry, that was obvious even with the power helmet on. He tone of voice indicated a good bit of anger for Charon, but he heard the undertone of guilt in it. Gallows knew what had been waiting for Emily, in Annapolis. He understood that they had walked into a trap.

Charon's fault. For being under contract when he could have directed her away. For not stopping her from walking east when he could have. For―for shooting her in the arm and destroying her Pip-Boy, getting them lost, and getting her into trouble. He had been blaming himself from the start, and she―

Emily would blame him, too, but she would not _mean_ it. She never did. She argued because it was who she was and because she enjoyed it.

 _"Where. Is. She,"_ the man repeated, staring the ghoul down with a forcible expression.

"I do not know," Charon replied.

 _"You―!"_ He lifted his weapon and pressed it directly into Charon's forehead, pushing him back by a step. "Was she _taken?!"_

"No," Charon said, staring the man down. "She left on her own." Which was the truth, even if he had been the one to leave first.

Gallows did not move the rifle. _"You_ assaulted the guardian bunker! _You_ killed the men in the town hall! Emily was _not_ there for _that!"_

Charon breathed out and fought the urge to remove the rifle from the grip of the soldier. If he provoked a fight now, he would never find her. Gallows―had training that Charon did not. Proper military training, and stealth was his forte. Though Charon was excellent at what he did, and had lived to do what he did, Gallows need only find a hiding spot from which he could take him down. Charon would only win if the soldier neglected to use any of his stealth tactics on him.

And he very much doubted that he would win. Gallows did not like that Emily was around him and was making it perfectly clear that he wanted to kill him. The rifle lens ground into the mangled flesh above his eyes.

"No," he answered. "Emily was not there."

"Where―"

"She was incapacitated," Charon rasped, pushing his forehead into the rifle, "because the A-Line knew she was coming and had prepared ahead."

Gallows faltered, then. Charon stared him down as the rifle was slowly removed. "I read the reports in the town hall," he started, his voice a little strangled. "If she was not taken―"

"The command to relax conditioning was embedded by way of music." Charon looked up and over the soldier's head, staring out into the city. "To reactivate the conditioning, to relax it... to protect the program from being destroyed." He felt uncomfortable, discussing this with the man. If Emily had given in, let him take her away from the bunker without fighting him, he would have told her. She was better at speaking to others.

She would have been able to persuade the soldier to help her destroy the city of slavers, and Charon could have gone away. Far enough away he would not be a threat to her life, any longer.

"Music." Gallows' hands lowered further. "...Emily's singing?"

"Yes." He turned his eyes back onto Gallows and gave him the hardest look he could muster. "The Woody Guthrie songs that she used to survive the Enclave torture."

"Good _God,"_ the soldier said, turning away. His voice was full of emotion.

"She is somewhere in the city," Charon rumbled.

"We haven't been able to find her." Gallows' head turned back to him.

Charon knew what he must be thinking. The soldier was caught by her, as much as he himself was. He knew the violence he would plan, if he were in the soldier's shoes. "You must find her," he told the man. "I am no longer able to protect her. It is _your_ job, now."

Gallows went still for a moment. He did not reply, only looked away. After a time, he walked back toward the other soldiers and left Charon standing in the shadow of a building, wondering where the hell Emily had gone.

Wondering if she had gotten herself killed, or if she was up to something.

And when the shots began to ring out in the courtyard, wondering why she was so goddamn _stupid._


	19. In Which Irving Finds Her

Emily turned herself with the infiltrator, to the right―as Charon had indicated. She saw―nothing that looked of interest. Whatever he was pointing at, she couldn't find. Maybe he meant up on a building? She moved the scope up and still didn't see anything―

And then two hands grabbed her from behind, pulling her upward, holding her tightly. Emily shrieked and kicked out, trying to fight off whoever it was that had her―

Wait. She felt metal pressing into her back, cold metal, and thick gloved hands around her shoulders, grasping her under the armpits and pinning her arms up so that she could not use her rifle. She turned her head and saw the power armor and she swore out loud, meanly cursing the soldier. This was what he'd _wanted!_ To take down the people who were causing suffering in slavery!

Why wasn't he letting her kill them? She wasn't in harm's way, she was secured on the roof. Unless one counted Irving's sneaking up on her―and why the _hell_ had he come into the city, if he was not there to take it down? Goddammit―he'd probably come after _her._

Yet another thing that was all her fault, for trying to play him like a fool. She should never have kissed him, ever; should have never encouraged him at all, even if she'd thought Charon was dead. He was so much damn _trouble―_

Irving dragged her away from the edge of the roof and back through the hole in the wall, before releasing her onto the tiny ledge that she'd climbed up to, in order to get out onto the roof. Emily's rifle came around and was in his face immediately―and he shoved it away, holding the infiltrator pinned to the wall with one hand. She did not release the weapon, but held her hands on it. She was not going to let him take it from her, if she could help it.

They stared at each other for a moment. He must have disarmed her mines and sneaked up on her―and Charon had provided a distraction, keeping her occupied. That fucking _bastard!_ How could he sell her out to Irving?

She remembered what he'd said about promising to go back to Irving; well, here he was and she couldn't go to him because he had come to her. Charon's idea about her being safer with Irving was simply because she would be away from Annapolis, and that wasn't going to happen now. She curled her lip up. What right did he have to throw her away? She didn't belong with Irving. Charon _knew_ that! She belonged with―

"Emily," Irving said, finally. There was nothing in his voice. No emotion, no pain, nothing.

She didn't reply. She stared at him through the goggles on the wastehound helmet, waiting for him to make the first move.

Suddenly, Irving's hand wrapped around the infiltrator and yanked it from her, tossing it over the railing, and his other hand went to her jacket collar. He pulled her to him, his face under the power helmet near to hers under the wastehound helmet. Neither one of the two of them reacted at all.

She didn't much care what he thought about her shooting slavers from the cupola. He'd said he trusted her judgement. He'd let her come to the city, even if he knew something like this might happen. He'd been wishy-washy and smitten and all those silly words one used to describe love, and he'd been easy to persuade.

But _this_ Irving―this tougher incarnation―was all business, like he'd been long before their nightly runs. She felt her chest tightening. If he wasn't going to act the fool again―she had no option to use, to get out of this situation. She'd have to see where it went.

"You listen to me, Emily," he said, finally, after staring her down for what felt like forever. "This is going to _stop_ right here and now. You've made a mess of this situation; you've destroyed any long-term plan I might have had for getting these people free. Everything up until this point was meant to be stealth, and I―" his voice cracked a little, just enough that she heard the break and knew he was still feeling. Deep in there, somewhere, was the Irving she had known. _"I_ will pay for _your actions_ in Annapolis."

She didn't say anything. It was his _own_ fault for coming after her, _his_ fault for giving into her. _His_ fault for letting himself be played by her. He should know better, he was an adult and he had let her mess with him one too many times.

She was just Emily. Just a stupid fucking _child._ Everything he said right now confirmed that.

"As of right now, I am revoking your membership in the Brotherhood of Steel," he continued, in the same hard voice from before. "You are no longer allowed to engage Brotherhood soldiers in conversation relating to any plans, and you will not be allowed to take part in any of the maneuvers I will undoubtedly have to take in order to make sure this city does not fall into ruin."

Emily scoffed. Like she needed a lecture. "Go on, then," she rasped. "Tell me I'm not allowed to play in your little clubhouse, because girls are _icky."_

He stared at her without moving then released her abruptly, dropping her to the ground. She hadn't realized he'd lifted her up. Her boots scraped against the ledge as she fought to gain purchase.

With another sudden move, he grabbed the top of her helmet and yanked it up. She yelped as he pulled her hair out with the motion, and grabbed out for the helmet. He held it above her head, his arm still, for a long time, before speaking. She didn't stop trying to grab at the helmet even when his other arm came around and held hers firmly.

"Emily?" he said, his voice fully breaking. _"Who―"_

She reached up and grabbed the helmet in a rough move, hastily pulling it over her head. "Whatever," she muttered, and smoothed out the rough fabric.

 _"No―"_ Irving grabbed her collar again. "Who the hell did _―that―to you?!"_

"It's none of your _business,_ Irving!" she rasped out. "Leave it alone!"

"Why―" He released her with a shove and started stomping away. _"I'll fucking kill him,"_ he growled, his feet hitting the ground hard and fast.

 _Shit!_ Emily ran after him, catching up with him on the stairs, and put herself in front of him. _"No,_ Irving!" she shouted, putting her hands out to stop him. "It wasn't his fault―"

"This _bullshit_ with that contract will end here!" Irving said, pushing her out of the way. "Do _not_ get in my way, Emily!"

She hit the wall and made an "oof" noise, then pushed herself back toward him, catching up to him again. "Leave him alone!" she shrieked, jumping onto Irving's back and wrapping her hands around his helmet. She tried to put her fingers where he couldn't see, so he would be forced to stop. _"It wasn't his fault!"_

"Let _go―"_ Irving growled, grabbing her hand with his and prying her fingers from his visor. It hurt and she swore, but held on as tightly as she could. She wrapped her legs around his waist and squeezed.

Irving stopped in mid-motion, and his visor swept down to her feet on his stomach. _"You won't hurt him!"_ Emily growled, moving her hands down to the latches of his helmet. She hooked her fingers under the edges and waited for him to move. "I won't _let_ you!"

"He doesn't even _want_ you anymore!" Irving said, incredulously. "Why are you _fight―"_

 _"I don't fucking care!"_ she shrieked, and pulled the latches free, ripping his helmet up. She lost her balance and fell backward, the power helmet flying from her hands and skidding down the stairs. Irving yelled and caught her hips behind him―her head hit the stairs, anyway.

 _Shit._ She blacked out.

* * *

Emily woke up lying on a pile of rubble. She thought for a moment that she had dreamed the whole thing, and she was still lying in the ruined house that Charon had put her into. But then she saw Irving was sitting next to her with his hands over his face and his knees up to his chest, his power helmet off to the side.

She sat up immediately, and reeled in pain. The back of her head felt weird―maybe she'd broke her skull or something, she didn't know―

"Don't get up," Irving said. "Just rest." His head turned to face her, but he was blurry and she blinked a few times, trying to dispel it.

"Where _the fuck_ is Charon," she asked, angrily. Her hands clenched into fists and dug into the broken bricks under her.

"Don't know," Irving said, tonelessly. "I really don't."

Emily tried to push herself up. "So _help me God,_ Irving, if you've _hurt_ him―"

"I couldn't even _find_ him to hurt him, Emily!" Irving snapped at her, dropping his hands. "He's _gone!"_

 _Gone?_ Emily stared at Irving for a moment. She tried to push herself up again and stood, wobbling. He'd left her before because she betrayed him―but he wouldn't go away for good, would he? For as often as he threatened to leave her, she'd never believed he actually would.

"It doesn't even matter, anymore," Irving said, lifting himself from the rubble. "Let it go, Emily. He left because he couldn't protect you anymore. He told me that."

"I won't let go―" She wavered a little, but caught herself. "Not until I get him _free―"_

"Yeah, that's not happening, _either,"_ Irving said, sourly. He turned to face her and she saw he'd been crying; his eyes were red and shining. "The bunker is gone. It's been destroyed. _He_ did that! So you would stop trying―" Irving sighed and looked off to the side. "There is nothing that you―that _anyone_ ―can do. Let it go, Emily!"

She snorted angrily. _Yeah, whatever._ She should trust his words, but―Emily turned and took a wobbling step away from him, and fell forward. Irving caught her, wrapped his arms around her chest and pulled her backward into his chest.

"Please, _please_ stop fighting," he murmured, into her ear. "Please, Emily. Just _let it go._ Stop this nonsense."

 _"No!"_ she shrieked, and fought against him. "Get your hands off of me, Irving!"

"I will _not―"_ he said, and tightened his grip. _"Why_ do you love him?! _Why!_ What is so attractive about _that―"_ His voice grew strained. "What does he have, that _I_ don't!?"

Emily stopped for a moment, letting herself dangle in his arms. "It doesn't matter," she said. "I can't love you, I told you that."

"And I told you I don't care," he answered, his breath hot on her ear. "Because, for me, loving you is something I can't turn off, or get rid of, or let go―"

"Well, now you know how _I_ feel―"

"And I accept that you will never want for me," Irving continued, ignoring her. "I have always wanted you to have what you want, but― _what you want_ ―is _gone, now!"_

"Let me go!" she shrieked again, writhing in his grip. "Let me go or I'll _fucking stab you!"_

"No," he said, calmly. "No, because there is nothing you can do. The ghoul is _gone._ He isn't coming back. He told me he would leave and you would never see him again. ...To keep you _safe."_

Emily gasped out a sob and fought harder against Irving's grip, throwing her head back into his head. She regretted that―the world swam around her, bile rose in her throat, pushing past the her throat and coating the inside of her mouth. Her chest hurt so badly she thought she would explode―

Emily threw up all over the place. Irving let her go, lowering her to the rubble, and she leaned on all fours, spitting up stomach acid and snack cakes.

 _"It's not fair!"_ she moaned, letting her sobs out. _"Everything_ I _ever_ did―"

Irving's hand rubbed her back gently, and he sighed. "I know," he said, in a weird voice.

"I just wanted him to be _free_ of that stupid _shit―"_ she gasped and sobbed and coughed up vomit. "I _just―I―"_

"It's okay, Emily," Irving said, his hand growing still on her back. "It's over, now."

 _No,_ Emily thought. It wouldn't be over until she found Charon again, and either killed him, or he killed her.

She pushed herself up and stood, slowly. "Irving..."

He sighed. "Yes."

"What... what happens now?"

The soldier sat back down and stared out over Annapolis, his head moving to pan the entire city. "I don't know, Emily," he said. "I really don't."


	20. In Which Emily Gets It Right

Note: This is officially the end of GIR, so you know. I'm not pleased with how things have turned out but I need to wrap this up so I can focus on other projects that have been demanding more of my time. I've set it up for a potential sequel, but we will see how long it takes to get to that; from MIO to GIR was a bit a of time.

I hope you've enjoyed reading this.

* * *

Annapolis held a lot of lessons for Emily. She didn't really learn them, but they _were_ there to be had. One of her defining qualities was that she never listened all that great unless she wanted to. And she didn't. She wanted everything to go back to the way it had been―

Before she got so angry at Irving and actually tried to attack him, before she lost her fool head over Charon―before she _ever_ decided to come east.

She hadn't been treating Irving good, at all. She'd treated him like shit and she was reaping the reward. Should have listened to Charon and apologized. Should have... promised to go to Irving, when he told her to, and then maybe things wouldn't be so awful, now.

She knew she was being stupid, being so mean to Irving. He still... he still loved her, even if he was irreparably mad at her. She didn't know what to do about him, what to do about the situation. She knew for sure that Charon was gone. And gone for good, too; he'd vanished into the wastes and was no where to be found.

Emily didn't know what to do with herself.

Everyone always left her. Everyone. Except for Irving.

Irving had had enough of her troubles and said he couldn't go back the way things used to be, between them. He couldn't be... near her, right now, he said. She drove him insane and made him hate himself. It wasn't her fault he was so taken by her; if he'd just let her go―she grumbled. She was getting tired of blaming everyone else when she knew the problem was really herself.

And while Irving was spearheading the recovery efforts in Annapolis―made worse by her impromptu shooting spree―he didn't want anything to do with her. But he wouldn't let her leave. It didn't make sense to her, but she did something she normally wouldn't have and she actually _listened_ to him. She stayed in Annapolis, because he asked her to.

Irving was a bit put aback by that, but he still wasn't forgiving her for being such an idiot. _Baby steps,_ Emily. She sighed to herself. _Things... will get better, I guess?_

God, she really sucked at trying to make herself feel better. Couldn't even get stinking drunk now, either. Aside from the fact that she'd probably get herself hurt or killed while passed out, she knew it wasn't going to make things better.

Even though he told her he didn't want her to help him free the slaves, she did. Emily set up a camp in an abandoned building and helped keep everyone calm, spent her own money buying food from the local vendors and giving it away.

She offered to remove any collars that could be removed, and spent three weeks disarming the explosive devices while the Brotherhood waited for backup and kept the peace. Dozens of slaves were freed by the efforts, some scattering to the hills, some staying. The older folks were content to remain in Annapolis and do their part in keeping the other ex-slaves from panicking or rioting.

John Turtle, and his folk, joined the effort. Emily told him what she could about the guardians. He wasn't happy that Charon had destroyed the bunker. _Join the fucking club,_ she thought. At least he got his son back―

Her Pip-Boy was not completely broken. When she had the time, she sat down and examined it. She realized what damage it had was reversible, and went to town on it. She was satisfied that it was fixed when she booted it up one day and saw the local map filling in, the terrain etching itself over the green display as her eyes flooded with tears. Goddamn thing. The root cause of all of her problems.

Part of her cursed that she had ever been raised in the Vault. If she hadn't been there―if her father had raised her out in the wastes―if she had never been forced to leave the Vault, to roam on her _own―_

None of this shit would have ever happened. She might have never met Charon. She wouldn't have been broken―

 _...Dammit, Emily._ _Blaming other people, again._

She shivered in the darkness when she slept, curled up on an old mattress. Her dreams were filled with nightmares, and she woke up screaming too many times to count. But... she wasn't alone. Ex-slave women who came to her gave her reason to be thankful that she'd been saved from Jerome Walker. The nightmares kept coming, but she wasn't the only one who screamed at night. Annapolis was filled with the screaming of many poor souls.

Her throat healed. Bruises faded, her trachea rebounded, her voice returned to normal. She didn't have much to talk about―and no one to talk with, so she didn't.

It was a long time before Irving started talking to her again.

He came to her to tell her the Brotherhood was leaving Annapolis, and she would be coming with. All that, he said with no emotion in his voice. And Emily did leave with them, but she didn't speak to anyone.

When they re-entered the Capital wasteland, travelling through the Metros, she didn't say a word. She kept her mouth shut and her rifle up and she stared at the dripping walls with a blank look. It wasn't until she was forced to talk to Elder Lyons that she said anything, and then it was only a callous refute of her bad planning and a calm acceptance of her ejection from the Brotherhood.

Irving followed her when she left the Citadel, which was a weird reversal of how it had been before. He wasn't wearing his power armor and he wasn't carrying his rifle; he was wearing a Brahmin-skin outfit and he was quiet. Emily remembered him quiet, before, and she knew he probably had so much on his mind―

And every _last bit of it_ was _her_ fault.

* * *

"Did they kick you out?" she finally asked, when they'd reached Rivet City. Emily didn't want to go home yet. Too many memories.

He turned his head to her and breathed through his nose, noisily. "Yes."

"Where are you going to go," she asked, tilting her head to look at him.

"Don't know." He stared out over the bridge and rubbed his neck. "Was hoping you'd let me come with you, for a little while."

Emily sat down on the edge of the railing and looked at the setting sun through her wastehound mask, and wondered where Charon had gone. What he was doing. If... he'd gone back to Underworld or if he'd just walked off into parts unknown.

"If you want, you can come with me," she said, slowly. "It won't be easy, though."

Irving laughed, bitterly. "That doesn't sound like you," he said, in a mean voice.

"I know," she answered. She felt shamed. His words cut her to the bone, now. She'd finally pushed him too far, and now she was paying for it.

"Well, whatever," Irving said, and crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you going to do now?"

Emily swallowed hard. "I... don't know."

"Aren't you the one in charge?" he asked, staring at her.

 _"Irving―"_ she clenched her fists and fought back tears. "I've never done _anything_ good, when I'm in charge!"

"I wouldn't say that," Irving replied. His face was hard. "You activated the purifier―"

"Charon did that. It was _him,"_ she muttered. _"Not me."_

"You helped to put the Enclave down. They won't be coming back from what happened, and no one will be forced to undergo what you did."

She closed her eyes behind her wastehound mask and sighed. The tears came now, curling down her cheeks. Her ears hurt, pressure building up inside her head. Colonel Autumn and the goddamn Enclave being dead and gone was the last thing she wanted to think about. Plasma burns _hurt_ ―she'd just about forgotten that whole thing. With this shit in Annapolis―and the conditioning―she sobbed, soundlessly.

"You might have screwed up in Annapolis, but there are hundreds of people there who will thank you for what you did do. Maybe you just don't see it, but you've done all kinds of good."

"Doesn't make me happy," Emily answered. "Just makes the world a little better, is all." She opened her eyes and sniffled a little.

He looked at her for a moment. "So what makes you happy?"

She had to think about that. Obviously her first answer was Charon, but that wasn't true anymore. That answer was no longer applicable to the situation. Thinking about him made her feel even worse than remembering the pain of the Enclave.

"I don't _know_ what makes me happy," she said.

He looked out over the bridge again. "Did Charon make you happy?" he asked, his voice strangled.

Emily sputtered out a sob. "Sometimes." She pulled her mask off and wiped her face with the rough fabric. "But I―I just used him, like I use _everyone."_

"Like you used me," Irving agreed.

"I've been terrible to everyone. Maybe I should be... by myself, for a while." She mashed her face into the mask and sobbed.

Irving wrapped his arms around her shoulders then, and held her loosely. "I don't think you'd survive yourself," he said.

"I am the _Lone_ Wanderer," she muttered, prying herself away from him. "This weird reputation I have―doesn't even feel like it's me, anymore." She sighed. "Like someone else is doing all this shit and I'm just along for the ride. Might be better to let myself be lone, try to... be me."

"You don't have to be alone," Irving said. "You've got so many people who want to have you around just because you're the Lone Wanderer―"

"They only see what I've done!" She stood up and huffed, her hands shaking. "No one wants― _just Emily!"_

Irving looked away from her for a moment. "Do you _ever_ listen to what I say?" he muttered.

"Oh, like you _count,"_ she snarled. "You've been all moony on me for ages and I _honestly_ don't get _why._ Even after I tried to run you off by being all pushy―and after I straight-up pushed you _away―"_

"Why!" he yelled. "I've been―God, Emily, I've told you I would do _anything_ to have you around―"

"Why?!" she shrieked, her voice rising. "Why the _hell_ would you _ever want me?!_ I'm _stupid!_ I can't shoot for _shit_ ―I can't take care of myself and―" She dropped the mask and balled up her fists again. _"And I obviously don't want you!"_

Irving's chest rose and fell in a shuddering breath, even if his face was calm. "That's that, then," he said. "You finally managed to get it right."

 _"Wh―"_ she screwed up her face at him. _"What the fuck, Irving?!"_

He looked up at the sky and chuckled. "Tired of being heartsick," he said. "I couldn't let you go because you never told me off. You always left an opening. Always another way to get inside, out of the cold." He turned away from her. "...I'll see you around, Wanderer."

Emily watched him move down the stairs and away from her, away from Rivet City.

 _Oh, God._ Irving finally left her.

She sobbed, curling up into a ball on the bridge. She didn't know how long she was there before someone tapped her on the shoulder and asked if she was okay.

No, she wasn't okay. She'd _never_ be okay.

Nothing would _ever_ be okay, ever again.


End file.
